


The Land of Fire and Ice

by Aubraucity



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya does not join the Dark Brotherhood, BAMF Arya Stark, BAMF Jon Snow, Before The Storm, Bleak Falls Barrow, Companions, Crossover, Daedric Quests (Elder Scrolls), Dark Brotherhood Questline, Dawnguard, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon hates dragons, Jon post s8, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Reluctant Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Skyrim Main Quest, The Forsworn (Elder Scrolls), Thieves Guild (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Vampire Turning, Werewolves, West of Westeros, it works, unbound - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29134542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aubraucity/pseuds/Aubraucity
Summary: Jon cannot stay in the North. Too much happened for him there. Too many nightmares haunt him, both by day and by night. But he's exiled. Where is he to go?West of Westeros. Just as his sister Arya did.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Original Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**HIS HEARING RETURNED FIRST,** a constant clatter thundering into his brains. The sound was scraped raw of context or meaning, jarring him to his bones. Jon stirred. His muscles wailed in silent agony. Shifting his jaw, he tried to open his eyes, and winced as light screamed in like shards of glass. 

Slowly, it became more bearable, and the world grudgingly settled around him. His head ached as if he had been drinking for three days straight. Peering around, he tried to make sense of his surroundings and the clatter and sway jolting him from side to side. A wagon? Jon pressed his palms to the rough wood beneath him to find them bound by a thick coil of rope.

“You’re finally awake,” remarked a gruff voice, “Guard’s sure worked you over.”

Jon forced his eyes to focus. A blurry face sharpened. Pale eyes. Blue paint. Lank reddish hair. Leather and mail armor with a steely blue surcoat. 

“Wha-?” His tongue felt thick, his throat so dry he couldn’t manage another word. Jon swallowed. It was like gulping down a razor. 

The man across from him leaned forward, “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that Imperial ambush, same as us and that thief over there,” he jutted his chin toward a bitter-looking sallow man who shot him a venomous glare. 

“Damn you Stormcloaks,” he growled, “Skyrim was fine till you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell. You..,” his eyes were oddly pale as well, “you and me, we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

“We’re all brothers in binds now, thief,” the Stormcloak said somberly.

“Oi, shut up back there!” The cart driver snapped. Jon peered past him to see that there was another cart ahead that was likewise filled with prisoners.

The horse thief did not seem impressed, “and...what’s wrong with him, huh?”

The fourth and last prisoner furrowed his eyebrows but was quite unable to say anything due to the length of linen that gagged him. He was a broad-shouldered man in gray furs, with a curtain of wheat-colored hair and icy eyes. Jon guessed that pale eyes were a common trait in these lands.

The True North had been too much for him. Jon had once loved it-the brush of snow, the glow of the ice under the morning light, the cold sharpness of the air-but it quickly became clear that the wilds beyond the Wall back at home were full of nightmares for him. The winds seemed to howl with the voices of the damned. He’d fall asleep to find himself watching as a wall of dead bodies surged toward him out of the darkness, or once more feel the blades slipping between his ribs and piercing his heart. Or  _ her _ as she stared up at him in disbelief, blood dribbling from her mouth and nose as he set her down in the snow. 

He had to leave. Word reached him that his sister Arya had found land in the west, so that’s where he had headed.

And this was where he ended up. Joy.

“Watch your tongue!” The Stormcloak snapped, pulling Jon from his brief reverie, “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak the true High King!”

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The horse thief looked like he’d been slapped, “You’re the leader of the rebellion. If they captured you...oh gods, where are they taking  _ us _ ?”
    
    
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“No! Please! I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!”

The horse-thief Lokir took off running. 

“Halt!,” the Imperial Captain barked. She was a tall and imposing woman with silver gilded armor. Her face under her helm was stern, mouth twisted into a frown of disgust as she called for an archer, and didn’t change as an arrow sprouted from between the prisoner’s shoulder blades, causing him to pitch forward onto the cobblestone street, “Anyone else feel like running?” she asked harshly as she turned back to the others.

“Wait.” 

It was the man next to her. A handsome fellow, with reddish hair and a clean-shaven face. He looked down at his parchment, then back up to one of the prisoners standing before him, “You. Step forward. Who are you?”

“...Jon.,” Jon tore his eyes away from the horse-thief’s body. He’d seen much worse before, but it reminded him of Rickon’s death, which he didn’t exactly want to be reminded of. 

“Breton, eh?” The man scratched something down on his parchment, “You’re not on the list. Captain, what should we do with him?”

“He goes to the block like the others, Hadvar” she said carelessly before stalking toward the block in question, a gore-stained thing set up in the shadow of a tower.

“By your orders, Captain,” the Imperial soldier said in a resigned voice, “We’ll have your remains sent to High Rock. Follow the Captain.”

Jon wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. He was going to be beheaded for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.  _ Just my luck. _ Jon thought scathingly as he trailed the Captain toward where all the other prisoners had been lined up for their executions. These men and women were soldiers, resplendent in leather and mail and bluish gray surcoats. Ulfric who was now standing before General Tullius, who had taken it upon himself to deliver an ultimatum.

“Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen may call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne,” The Imperial glared at Ulfric as the rebel looked down at him with an annoyed expression, “You started this war, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the-”

A cold shriek shattered the morning air. It was distant but sent chills down Jon’s spine as he looked up toward the mountains and the sky beyond. 

He wasn’t the only one alarmed, “What was that?” someone wondered aloud.

“Probably one of those blasted trolls,” General Tullius dismissed, “Carry on.”

“Yes, General!” The Captain turned toward another woman, a priestess adorned in russet robes and a yellow hood, “Give them their last rites.”

The priestess raised her hands toward the sky, “As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved-”

“Oh, for the love of Talos,  _ shut up! _ ” One of the Stormcloaks snarled as he marched forward and stopped before the chopping block, “Let’s get this over with.”

The priestess seemed just as taken aback as everyone else, “As you wish,” she said curtly, stepping back as the Captain pushed the prisoner to his knees, forcing him to kneel over the chopping block. Slowly, the hooded headman raised his wicked, heavy iron ax overhead.

“Come on!” the soldier jeered at him, “I haven’t got all morning! My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say that same?”

Seconds later, his head fell into the strategically placed basket and his body was kicked aside amidst a storm of shouts. Next to Jon, the Stormcloak Ralof, the red-haired man who had sat across from him on their way to the execution, sighed. “As fearless in death as he was in life,” he muttered sadly as the clamor faded.

“Next, the Breton in rags!” The Captain barked. 

As Jon went the step forward, the shriek sounded again. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard, a primordial cry that sounded as cruel as it was terrifying. Most people now looked unsettled, including the Imperial Hadvar, “There it is again. You all heard it, right?”

“I  _ said, _ ” The Captain seemed to be the only one unfazed, “next prisoner!”

“To the block, then. Nice and easy.”

The walk seemed to take ages, though in reality, it was less than a dozen paces. Jon turned to see that Hadvar was gazing at him with a sorrowful expression before he was shoved downward by a rough pair of hands.  _ This is really the end. _ He thought despairingly as he turned his head to rest his cheek against the wood. One last tiny comfort before he went. 

_ The view could be worse, though _ . Even as the headsman raised his ax, Jon admired the mountains towering overhead, as well as the clear blue of the sky as the sun finally rose above the horizon. Then his brow furrowed as a jagged, hulking shadow emerged from behind one on the peaks and  _ screamed. _

A dragon. At first Jon thought it was Drogon, since it was red and black, but he quickly changed his mind. The beast was oddly twisted looking as it banked sharply and dove toward them. It drew near, snapping its massive wings as it stalled before dropping heavily atop the tower  _ right there _ , Jon realized its sinister appearance was due to the fact that dark armor had been grafted directly into its hide. 

The dragon opened its jaws and the sound that blasted out was as loud as thunder. It was a wave of pure force, and if Jon hadn’t been on the ground already, he would have been knocked off of his feet. The headsman caught the most of it and pitched forward onto the cobblestone. His head struck the rocks with an ugly thud and he did not move again.

Hadvar rushed forward as the dragon spoke in a voice that made the ground itself tremble. The sky above darkened, and blasts of fire fell, raining down on the town with explosive impact. The monster roared and leaped off of the tower, its wings as large as sails as it took to the sky. 

“Hey, Breton! Get up!” Jon felt Hadvar hauling him to his feet, “come on, the gods won’t give us another chance! Go!”

Jon ran. The courtyard was in chaos, molten rocks pummeling the cobblestone and smashing into buildings, which went up in flame as if they were coated in pitch. The dragon wheeled overhead, swooped down, and banked sharply as it dropped a townsman from its claws to fall and break atop the roof of a longhouse.

“Over here!” The tower doors were open. Jon dashed inside to see that several Stormcloaks had taken shelter there as well. One was treating a pair who had suffered nasty-looking wounds. Ralof grabbed his arm and pulled him inside as the dragon made a pass outside, flames bathing the ground where he’d been only seconds before, “My king!” Ralof gasped to Ulfric Stormcloak, who had managed to get his hands free and removed the gag from his mouth, “Could the legends be true?”

“Legends don’t burn down villages,” Ulfric said gravely. The dragon roared, and the entire building trembled, dust falling from the ceiling, “We need to move. Now.”

“Up through the tower, then,” Ralof said, eying the flames still dancing outside of the door, “We might be able to spot a way out from there. With me!” He said to Jon before charging up the stairs. 

As they neared the first landing, the wall suddenly bashed in with a shower of stone that caught the Stormcloak already standing there, killing him instantly. The dragon’s terrible head, as large as Jon’s torso, poked in and spat a blistering torrent of fire before leaping off the side of the building and flying off once more. Ralof scrambled up to the opening.

“See the inn?” He said frantically, “Jump through the roof. I’ll meet you when I can.”

Jon jumped. A jolt of pain shot through his legs as he landed on the top floor of the inn, the wood groaning under his feet. It gave way as soon as he went to take a step, and he crashed down on top of a bed. Other than bashing his shoulder, Jon was amazed to discover he was unhurt. He got out of the building as fast as he could, then stopped short at the sight before him.

The entire town was burning. Thick smoke choked the air as fire reached hungry orange claws to consume everything in its path. People laid dead and dying in the street, some charred beyond being recognizably human, others crushed under debris, or splattered across the ground and walls after being dropped from mid-air. Jon moved through it all with a numb sort of horror, cold sweat trickling down his brow as the great shadow moved through the smoke and dropped down in the middle of a street to stare at a boy with pitiless red eyes. 

The child was frozen in terror and would have been burned to a crisp if Hadvar hadn’t shot out from an alleyway and snatched him away before the flames could consume him. The soldier ducked behind a wall, and the dragon made an angry noise as it crept forward, its lips peeling back in an evil grin as it arched its neck to peer around the corner-

“HEY UGLY! OVER HERE!”

The idea had been good in theory. The dragon's head whipped toward Jon with supernatural speed, and it  _ laughed _ . Before it could kill him, though, an arrow struck the dragon’s neck. It didn’t do any visible damage, but it enraged the beast all the same. It leaped toward the archer and snapped him up in its jaws.

“Still alive?” Hadvar had his sword drawn as he gestured toward the alley in which he had come from, “Follow me if you want to stay that way.”

They wound through Helgen as the dragon continued its assault. They passed by a half-dozen mages shooting orbs of magic into the sky, and archers, and finally stopped before a keep. 

“Ralof, you traitor! Out of our way!”

The Stormcloak was on his own and didn’t seem keen on letting them pass.

“I’m escaping, Hadvar. You’re not stopping me this time.”

For a moment, Jon thought the two were going to duel, but Hadvar shook his head after a long moment. It was impossible to tell which man hated the other more, “Fine,” the Imperial spat, “I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!”

Ralof fled as another body crashed down a mere few paces from him. Jon retched at the sight, but Hadvar pressed on, pulling him along toward the doors of the keep. 

“ _ Mother of- _ ” A blast of air hit Jon square in the chest. He felt himself tumbling through the air, heard an awful thud, and then Jon Snow knew nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

A breeze shifted motes of golden summer sun through the coil of hanging moss. Ashmun leaned back on his elbows, letting fingers of light and shadow stroke his face. The air was thick with honeysuckle and smoke. A fat bee buzzed around his head, mistaking his silken white tresses for flowers. The Dunmer blinked drowsy crimson eyes.

The day was hot, the sky clear save for the smoke rising from the ruins of Helgen. He, Zaynabi and Kharjo sprawled across the friend outside of the village, sipping on moonwine and munching sweetmeats. The picnic of sorts was Zaynabi’s idea; Ashmun could literally hear her purring in the warmth of the sun from his spot several dozen paces away. The others, Dro'Marash and Ahkari, were currently inside of the charred remains of the town, searching it for any salvageable loot. 

The last fortnight had been shockingly pleasant for Ashmun. After being expelled from House Redoran, he had wandered south along the Velothi Mountains into Cyrodiil. He ran into Ahkari’s caravan outside of Bruma-being a Dunmer, the mostly Nord populated city turned him away at the gates, but when the Khajiit’s found out he too was headed into Skyrim, they took him into their caravan in exchange for his sword and fluency of his Tamrielic. And other than a few wolves, their traveling had been smooth. 

The Khajiit’s were excellent company; traveling on the road for so long gave one innumerable stories to tell. They also had an incredible cuisine, seasoning even the stringiest of rabbits with their sugars, which Ashmun had taken a great liking to. And they were good fighters, with or without weapons. Dro'Marash dueled Ashmun each evening and their blades sang in harmony with the fire-fretted tunes Zaynabi would coax from her wizened lute. 

Ashmun spotted Ahkari before the others did. She was wearing her traveling gear-leather armor the same dark brown as her short fur. She crossed the grass at a lope and stopped before him, “Ahkari needs help from Ashmun,” she said as he looked at her questioningly, “Khajiit cannot understand the atrocity of an accent.”

This got Ashmun’s attention, “You found someone? A survivor?” He was dying to know what had caused Helgen’s destruction. Surging to his feet, he followed Ahkari, who nimbly weaved around the debris as they approached the scorched walls, “This had to have happened recently,” he noted as he saw flames still smoldering on blackened wood. 

Dro’marash was crouched near the wreckage of a house. It’s roof was mostly burned away, but some of the thatched straw still clung desperately to the charred beams. Ash covered the ground in a thick layer and looked like it had served as a cushion to the bewildered-looking man who couldn’t stop staring at Dro’marash as if he had never seen a Khajiit before.

He did a double-take at Ashmun as well, but he chalked it down to his unusually good looks. Altmeri blood was unheard of in Dunmer, so when Ashmun was born with the telltale pale hair and smooth skin of High Elves, people were shocked. They still tended to be to this day, which was wearisome. 

Underneath the soot, the man was fair of skin. His hair was black and curly, and his eyes were dark, crow-like and desolate. Ashmun recognized that look.  _ This fellow has seen death and lots of it. _ “Surely an educated Breton such as yourself would know of Khajiit,” Ashmun said as a reminder. When the Breton didn’t look away, he hardened his tone a touch, “and how they don’t appreciate being gawked at.”

“Oh,” he quickly averted his gaze, “Sorry. I, er, I’m not learned.” He went to reach up, probably to wipe some soot off his brow, but frowned at the binds around his wrists. 

Not learned, but clearly competent with a sword, Ashmun noted as he saw the callouses on the man’s hands, “Let me help you with that,” he said, reaching forward and tugging at the knot. The binds fell away neatly, and the man rubbed at his wrists. 

“Thanks,” He said. Then: “I’m Jon Snow.”

“Jon Snow,” Ashmun tasted the words on his lips, “A fitting name for a man of northern Tamriel. Though I can’t quite place the accent,” It was a very thick dialect, not the light smoothness of High Rock, nor the gruff warmth of Skyrim, but something both rugged and elegant and unlike anything Ashmun had ever heard. Jon Snow offered no further clarification, “I’m Ashmun. What happened here?”

“A dragon.”

A long pause.

“.. _.I beg your pardon? _ ”

“Yeah,” Jon Snow gingerly rose to his feet. He was really quite short, “Flew in from the mountains.”

“...A dragon. Winged fire-breathing lizard.”

“Black and red.” Jon said. This time he did manage to wipe some soot off his brow, revealing a scar over his eye. 

Dro'Marash laughed, “Boy, dragons haven’t been seen in Tamriel for  _ centuries _ -”

“It explains the fire, but so does destruction magic,” Ashmun interrupted. “Are you quite certain, Jon Snow?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Then let’s get the fuck out of here before it comes back.”
    
    
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Ashmun perched up in the crown of a pine, staring down the narrow river valley and trying not to worry too much about the dragon. The sun glared from its spot just above the horizon, livid as it slowly set. A handful of raindrops splatted the dry earth as thunder rumbled overhead, clouds darkening the sky above distant Morrowind to a frantic violet.

Morrowind.  _ Home.  _ Some thought it little more than a volcanic waste, but these were the people who never saw the wonders of the Ascadian Isles, or the sweep of the Grazelands or even the dark of the Ashlands-a harsh desert, yes, but there was something to be said about fine black sand and pale ashes drifting slowly down like snow. 

Ashmun grew up in Blacklight, on the edge of the Ashlands and the Western Gash. The vegetation was sparse and hardy, the air dry and thin. He was raised by his mother in her estate until she died, and was then taken in by House Redoran. It was a begrudging home, with a hundred averted eyes and a thousand superstitious platitudes about humility and responsibility, but a home nonetheless. 

The House never said it directly, but they were wary of him being part Altmer. The two races normally avoided each other at all costs. As he grew, he became tall and slender as well as very aware of how different he was from his fellow kinsmen. When  _ it _ had happened, they had cast him out with suspicious punctuality. Eager to be rid of him, no doubt.

“Oi!”

A deft figure strode up to the base of the tree and looked up. Ashmun caught a glimpse of dark curls and fair skin.

“Jon Snow.”

“If you’re trying to be a far-eye, you’d do better in a taller tree.”

“And have to take more time to climb down? Fat chance.” Ashmun deftly lowered himself until he was about ten feet off the ground, then dropped to land lightly on the ground below. Straightening, he studied Jon up and down. A smile curled his lips, “Why, haven’t you cleaned up nicely?”

Jon had refused to let the Khajiit dispose of his studded leather tunic, as soot-stained as it was. When they insisted it was beyond cleaning, along with the rest of his outfit, he had taken it to the river with some lye soap. Now, three hours after they had made camp, he finally returned.

Ashmun plopped down in the grass. In the nearby clearing, someone had lit a fire, and the glow sent sparks glinting from the silver hoop nestled around the top cartilage of Jon’s ear as he leaned against the tree, “Where’ve you been? Brooding off in the dark?” he chuckled at his own jest.

“I needed some time to think. A lot has happened today, and...I figured I’d be better off staying out of the way. Don’t want to impose.”

“Please. Ahkari and Zaynabi have spoiled me like a child. They love guests. If they didn’t, then we’d most  _ certainly _ know.” Pause. “We’re going to Riverwood tomorrow. It’s another village, just north along the river. It’s another half-day to Whiterun, but from there, you can head off any way you want. Going anywhere in particular?”

“I don’t know these lands. I sailed here and ended up in Morrowind. My sister also came west-”

“Wait.” Ashmun stared at Jon, “You’re from  _ Akavir? _ ”

“Akavir?”

“The eastern lands. You came from the east. That’s-we call it Akavir, and…,” Ashmun drifted off, studying this Jon Snow. “You’re not...one of  _ them _ , are you?”

“One of what?”

“The Tsaesci. Snake people. They say they eat flesh and drink blood.”

“I-no,” Jon gave Ashmun a strange look, “The land I’m from is called Westeros. The Seven Kingdoms. Iron Throne?” He ventured, frowning at the lost look on the Dunmer’s face, “No? Well, there’s certainly no snake people I know of. Not much in the way of magic nowadays. Used to be giants, and dragons, children of the forest, which weren’t really children, more like...well, like you elves, except smaller. There was also... _ them _ ,” his face darkened as if plagued by some terrible memory, “White Walkers. They looked like a man, but were as to ice and death as we are to flesh and blood. They could raise the dead and control their every move.” Jon then fell quiet, “They almost killed us all last winter.”

“We don’t know much about Akavir, but we’ve heard tales of the Kamal. They say that they try to attack people lost in the wilds, but the Tang Mo - monkey people, likely those ‘children who aren’t really children,’ drive them back to their icy caves. They say dragons came from Akavir as well, but also from Atmora in the north…? Obviously, the stories are a bit...twisted. But everyone thought that humans had gone extinct over there.” Ashmun was fascinated, “Why did you leave your Westeros, Jon Snow?”

“It’s...a long story.”

“We have all night.”

“Longer than that. It’s like at least six books long. Maybe seven,” Jon snorted, “But I just needed to leave. Start over.”

“Well, you’re off to a lively start. I’m headed off to join the Dawnguard. Vampire hunters. Might as well put my sword to good use. Now come on, it’s getting late.”

Jon’s lip puckered, “I’m not a child, and I’m not ready for-”

The sound of hooves echoes striking packed earth thundered through the night. Ashmun swore and reached for his khopesh, letting the familiarity of its carved bone grip be a small comfort as he and Jon rushed toward the Khajiit’s camp. 

The Khajiit were already aware of the issue. Their voices were raised in alarm as the patrol approached. Kharjo and Dro'marash had their weapons drawn while Zaynabi scurried about hiding the contraband. The mule brayed and the chickens squawked. 

Ahkari was still. She stood in front of the guttering campfire with her feet planted wide and dark braids dancing in the breeze. She didn’t flinch as the patrol drew close enough to see the wild eyes of the horses and the mustard yellow of their surcoats over the steel mail protecting their bodies. 

“Jon,” Ashmun said softly, “these are Whiterun guards. They owe allegiance to the Imperials. Keep your head down, and let me do the talking if they ask you any questions. You are mute, understand?” In his peripherals, he saw the Akavirian nod. 

The patrol came to a halt at the edge of the clearing. Their captain dismounted in a flurry of steel and yellow, tossing her reins to a lieutenant and dragging off her hermit. She was a woman in her fourth decade at least; grey threads sparked in her fair hair knotted at the nape of her neck. Laugh lines etched her face, but her eyes were forged of ice.

“You,” the captain glared down at Ahkari, “This is your caravan?”

“Aye.” Ahkari’s voice rasped.

“Your papers.”

Ahkari thrust a sheaf of paper into the captains’ hands, “Everything’s in order, Ahkari assures you. Might Khajiit ask what this is about?”  
“We search every caravan that enters the hold,” the captain grunted, not looking up from her rough rifling of the documents, “Now, tell me-where did this caravan originate?”

“Rawl’kha.”

“Destination?”

“Skyrim. Khajiit’s plan on traveling back and forth between Dawnstar and Riften.”

“Purpose?”

“Trade. General goods collected on the road.”

“And who are these two?” The captain gestured toward Ashmun and Jon. 

“Friends of Ahkari.”

“Not fugitives, then?”

Ahkari hesitated for barely a second before shaking her head no. But the captain saw it. Everyone did. 

A cold smile crept across the captain’s face, “Well then. Let’s see what we have here.” She strode up to Ashmun and Jon, “Why, aren’t you two pretty?” she sneered, “Tell me, what are you wanted for? Murder? Whoring?”

“...Definitely not.” Ashmun said, “I’m afraid I’m not wanted for anything. The same goes for my friend here. We’re just innocent travelers from Cyrodiil.”

“No one is truly innocent. And innocence surely doesn’t pay me a commission. Search the camp,” she ordered, “Anyone who stands in the way is in defiance of Skyrim and her people.”

“No. Stay your men, wench,” Ashmun snarled, “Your business here is done.”

The woman’s brows slashed together. 

“Do you wish to die, elf? They say it’s a great honor to die to another’s blade.” A smirk wove the lines of her face into a savage tapestry.

“And yet, it’s an honor that’s beneath me,” Ashmun drew himself up to full height, held out an imperious hand, and made the captain see something that wasn’t there.

A sheaf of parchment appeared. An illusion, fashioned from the magic and darkness pulsing through his veins. The ink glimmered blood red and the paper rustled in the breeze, densely woven and fine. And the insignia of House Redoran glared from the top page, heavy and solid and livid as the setting sun. 

He held his breath, ignoring the low humming in his ears and the strength sapping from his limbs.

The captain took one look at the seal, and her face drained of color. She swept into a deep bow.

“My apologies!” She gasped. “I had no idea someone of your station was traveling with this caravan. Forgive me!” She saluted briskly, spun on her heel, and strode through her men, “Stand down. Our authority has been revoked. Return to your mounts at once!”

They were gone within moments, shards of metal glinting between the trees. 

Ashmun sucked in a deep breath of smoky air and glanced down at the document in his hand/ The edges of his vision curled like flame-eaten parchment as the illusion evaporate, bleeding into wisps of bloody red. Within seconds, the wisps grudgingly dissipated as well. Ashmun shoved his hands in his pockets as his senses sharpened and his body cried out in a sudden, ravenous hunger. 

The Khajiit stared at him. Humiliation tinged with horror caught in his throat. Did they know what he had done? Had they seen him, a simple elf conjure a Redoran insignia from thin air with blood magic? Or was it enough that they had watched a penniless Dunmer Refugee single-handedly banish a platoon of armed Nordic guardsmen into the night and walk away unscathed?

A hand fell on his shoulder. He spun, heart vaulting.

Jon Snow.

“Easy,” the Akavirian murmured. His face was unreadable, “You’ve done nothing wrong that I know of.”

Ashmun gave a slow nod. But as Jon turned to pick his way through the camp, Ashmun didn’t have the heart to tell him that what the captain had said was true: No one was truly innocent.

Especially him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the fantabulous mess that is this story. Sorry it took me a couple of days to post. I had written a good way into the second chapter and decided to scrap it and start over because unlike my other works, I intend to create something that's a little more high quality than the drabble-type stuff I've done before.  
> We're going to have a bit more action in the next chapter, so stay tuned!


	3. Chapter 3

The wind shrieked from the Ghost Sea, over Winterhold and Eastmarch, and bullied its way between the Velothian mountains, driving icy rains before it. Arya Stark hunched her shoulders against the sleet needling her face and hands.

Dayspring Canyon spread before her, alternately hidden and revealed by swirls of fog and rain. A treacherous sheep path, pricked by cairns of stone, descended down toward the canyon floor. 

Her amulet thrummed against her chest, responding to the proximity of magic. She was well aware of what was hidden inside Mount Dawnguard. Blinking raindrops off her eyelashes. Arya peered up at the mountain. Also known as the Stone Thorn, Mount Dawnguard contained a potent source of power Maven Black-Briar coveted.

It had been a long half-days ride from Riften, over increasingly hazardous roads, fighting the weather and the willfulness of her borrowed horse. By the time she had reached the pass leading into the canyon, her eyes were twitchy from peering through the swirling flakes and her back aching from the rough ride.

And that had been the easy part.

She’d made the hike through the pass, her scuffed boots sliding on the weather stones despite the spiked grips Tonila had strapped on. She had to slide between the sentries posted by the Dawnguard on the surrounding hills. The vampire hunters heavily patrolled the area soas not to allow any of their quarry anywhere near the castle.

At least Arya was in good shape, better than she’d ever been. She’d been training under the tender hand of Brynolf, who favored runs around Lake Honrich before breaking his fast. Arya was only sixteen and Brynolf well into his thirties, but it still wasn’t easily keeping pace with the lean Guild Master.

Ahead, a golden mist shrouded the trail, close to the ground, strange for the weather and time of day. An odd color for any season. Arya eyed it warily, extended a glove hand, and spoke a charm. Nothing. She still hadn’t gotten the hang of this magic stuff yet, and was unsure if the problem was in the charm or in herself.

She tried a couple more spells without success until the mist grudgingly parted, dissolving into shreds that the wind carried away.

It was dark in the canyon, the peaks above gilded with the last of the light. Lamp’s kindled in Fort Dawnguard, the plae shape of it bulking through the swirls of fog and blowing rain.

Arya was able to move with a great speed as the ground leveled from steep stone slopes to more gradual switchbacks. Until she rounded a corner and blundered into a mess-a great messy web made of thick, translucent cords that was nearly invisible in the failing light.

The spiders of Skyrim grew to impossible sizes, and spun webs meant to capture prey large enough to sate their appetites. Arya tried backing out of it, but it was incredibly sticky, and every move trapped her further. 

She forced herself to stillness and drew her dagger. Gripping the hilt of the Valyrian steel, she tugged it free and sliced carefully at the tendrils within reach. The webs parted reluctantly. It was designed to withstand tooth and claw from the various beasts that the spiders preyed upon, and she wasn’t doing much better with an actual blade.

It took ten precious minutes to cut herself free. Even then, the opening was just broad enough to slide through. 

She knew she should have ditched the mission and get out while she could. But Arya Stark was well known for her impulsivity, and less known for her more... _ sinister _ tricks. She also had no desire to slink back to the Guild empty handed - they had been disappointed in her ever since she had botched the Goldenglow job. 

She thrust her body through the breach. As she emerged, volleys of flame erupted from the hillside above, and she flung herself sideways. Scrambling into a grove of trees on hands and knees, she only dared turned to look when she was adequately surrounded by the shadows.

All around, steel clad warriors barreled through the forest, directing withering fire toward the tear in the web.

Arya stuffed her fingers into a pocket and pulled out a dull stone engraved with runes. It was the Shadow Stone in miniature, and was warm to the touch despite the cold, steaming slightly in the brittle air, drawing power from the Shadow Stone back near Riften. Stroking the surface with her fingers, she spoke the charm.

Now rendered invisible, Arya threaded her way through the woods and across the open trail leading up to the castle. Away from the shelter of the Canyon’s walls, the wind assaulted her once more, but now she was impervious to it, ignited by determination.

The ground was studded with wind-seared brush, rocks, and fissured with shallow brooks. The need to mind her footing warred with the desire to peer around like a gawking tourist. Skyrim was a brutal land, but also quite beautiful. 

Flares rocketed into the air, lighting the canyon as if it were midday. Arya guessed she should’ve been flattered at the intensity of the response to her trespassing. It was like using a crossbow against a gnat. Still, the rain fell, gleaming in impossible colors as the light struck it.

Ahead the fortress loomed, an impressive stone structure set into the side of the mountain. Gardens skulked around the edges, littered with the skeletons of dead plants, like the leavings of a failed fair-weather civilization. 

Squadrons of Dawnguard charged up and down the narrow gorge shield locked in place, splattering flames in all directions. Some passed within a few feet of her, shining warriors in oiled steel. Arya continued her march. 

She’d hope they would give up, assuming the intruder had fled. Of course they didn’t. A charm was spoken, and a great wall of white vapor rolled toward her across the ground.

Arya swore again, then turned and sprinted for the side of the mountain. She began to climb. As the way grew steeper, she had to reach high to find handholds above her head, desperately hauling herself up by pressing her body into crevices and wedging her feet into the imperfections that marred the stone face of the mountain. 

About the time she thought her lungs would burst, Arya reached a ledge and shoved herself up and over. She laid face down for a long moment to gather her breath, then pulled herself to her feet.

The canyon below was a sea of mist, a vast cesspool that lapped higher and higher on the surrounding slopes. 

She turned around. A jagged crack in the rock greeted her. Arya eyed the cave. Cool air kissed her face. Maybe she could hole up in the mountain until the mists subsided. Seeing no other choice, she plunged into the opening.

It was dark. Arya whispered another charm, and a ball of purest white light floated above her palm, a makeshift lamp to show the way. As she snaked into the rock, it became clear that she’d stumbled upon a ruin hewn out of the mountain in centuries past. Scattered on the floor was evidence of prior occupation: bones, shards of pottery, and metal fittings.

Arya pushed on, the cave wind blowing against her face,  _ Good. It might keep the mist at bay.  _ She thought.

The passage ended in a chamber the size of a large hall. Far above, wind whistled through a huge opening to the outside. That was the source of the fresh air, then. She tried to push light to the ceiling, but the dark vault soared high overhead, beyond the reach of her puny spell. 

Soot smudged the walls all around, as if from the smoke of a thousand fires. In one corner bulked a raised platform, eight foot off the floor. Arya found fingerholds and scrambled to the top. 

Here were fragments of fabric: velvet and satin and lace that disintegrated when she touched them. More bones were piled in the corner, including what she could tell were human skeletons. Skulls grinned from niches in the walls. She was in the lair of some great predator or the site of a long-ago battle.

At the far end was a massive iron door, an odd symbol etched into the dark metal. 

Arya eyed it. In a story, that was the door one shouldn’t open.

But of course she did.

It was a storeroom, lined ceiling high with barrels, chests and casks, strongboxes and coffers, baskets and bins.

She stood in the doorway blinking stupidly for a moment, then rushed over and pried the lid off the nearest barrel. Recklessly thrusted her hands deep, she let the content trickle through her fingers.

Pearls. In all colors, from precious black to creamy whire to pale pink and yellow. Large and round and perfect. A fortune.

She lifted the lid on a brass-bound chest. Emeralds, deep green with fiery hearts. A gold coffer was filled with diamonds so large that anywhere else she’d assume they were fake.

Stones in all colors, spools of gold chain, loose gems, coins engraved with portraits of long dead kings and queens. Bolts of velvet and satin shrouded in linen. Cabinets of scrolls and books in leather bindings. Paintings in gilded frames were stacked four deep against the walls.

Arya leaned against the wall, rubbing her chin. She couldn’t haul everything out in one trip, but she couldn’t count on coming back, either. She might not make it out alive this time. And if she was caught…

She had to focus on smaller items, and choose carefully. Opening her pack, she set it on the floor and began to methodically work her way through the vault. She shoved jewelry glittering with enchantments, crystals, mirrors, and faintly glowing soul gems into the pack, hoping she didn’t break anything or set something off.

At the back of the vault, a staff of polished wood and brass stood alone, as if its owner had leaned it against the wall and meant to come back to retrieve it. She gripped the hilt gingerly. The metal tingled in her hand, a kind of magical greeting.

The thing was of rather plain make, carved with some Nordic runes and filigree and topped by a dragon’s head. It hummed with power, and as she lifted it, it seemed to ignite, driving the shadows from the corners of the room. In it’s light, Arya noted that the walls were carved, jagged symbols etched around an image hewn in the rock. A bone white dragon, head raised and black wings spread. 

Arya studied the wall, knowing that it might hold important clues. Power seems to ripple under the dragons gleaming scales, and intelligence glittered in its mismatched eyes-one dark and fiery, the other a brilliant blue. An inky cloak poured down its back in liquid folds, to be caught in the arms of a man who stood just behind the beast.

The man was swell-dressed for a servant, if that’s what he was. Ivory armor clad his body over a midnight cloak. An odd, flat mask was worn on his face, a single glittering gemstone set in its forehead. Although he was small next to the dragon, he seemed unafraid. A hand rested on the dragon’s leg in an affectionate way, and its massive head arched toward him as if in intimate conversation. 

When Arya’s fingers brushed the engraving, the dragon’s head snapped forward to face her. She yelped in alarm and jumped back as the picture’s wings twitched and eyes blinked once, opening again to blaze with a much brighter light as it seemed to study her.

“ _ You are not worthy, _ ” A voice seemed to echo from the mountain itself, monstrously deep and terrifyingly ancient, “ _ Only fire and ice may pass. _ ”

Arya frowned, more curious than frightened. Then an idea struck her, and she lifted her hands, uttering two spells.

Fire and ice, eh?

On the third try, she succeeded, and laid her hands once more on the stone, palms flickering with flame and frost magic. Rock ground against rock as the engraving receded into the wall. A chunk of stone rose from the gap, atop it a pedestal of intricately worked metal topped by a dark purple crystal. Gingerly, Arya reached into the niche and lifted the stone off its base.

She sat back on her heel, cradling the gem between her hands. It was roughly the size of a human heart, glittering with broad flashes of amber and blue fire. It was a raw gem, a chunk of rough crystal. It was hot and cold at the same time, like the feeling you got beneath the unyielding sun during the dead of winter. It also seemed to hum with power. Long minutes passed while she gazed into its heart, mesmerized. The pulsing current seemed to flow between the stone and her hands and the magicka flowing through her body, reinforcing it. 

Was this the source of power Maven had wanted her to fetch? The woman had not been entirely specific, but Arya was certain that this was it. Leaning forward, she pulled the base out of the niche. It was a tangle of beasts, one maybe one with multiple heads. Dragons.

She stuffed it into her pocket, then prepared to leave. She slung her pack over her shoulder, listing a little beneath the weight. The staff she held. She wished she could carry more. 

When she stepped out between the double doors, they slammed shut behind her. 

Great cracks fissured the stone vault overhead, spidering out ahead of her.

_ Shit _ .

Arya ran, leaping over debris, dodging falling rock and gravel, twisting and turning down the narrow passages, feeling the rock pitch and shudder under her feet. Ahead, she saw light. 

Silvers of stone stung her face as she saw the rocks falling in front of the cave entrance. Arya flung herself through the collapsing entrance, sliding like an eel, clutching the staff close to her body, scraping her elbows, smashing her hands, twisting to free her loaded pack, desperate to make it out.

And then she did, clinging to the icy ledge as the mountain snapped shut behind her. She laid there for several long minutes amongst her treasures and bloody smears before levering herself into a sitting position and sneaking a look over the edge. 

The fog was dissipating, shredding into long streamers that swirled away in the wind. The trees were still smoldering. Mage fire was notoriously difficult to put out.

`Arya couldn’t invoke the Shadow Stone for at least another day. But the Dawnguard seemed to be satisfied that they’d driven away their intruder, and she crept down the rockface without issue, fighting the weight of her pack, the staff catching in underbrush and crevices. She huffed a sigh of relief when she reached the canyon floor. She slipped back the way she came, loping down the trail and heading for the pass that led out of the mountains to the Rift, where she would return to the Guild with her loot. 

Above, the skies were shrouded in mist, so she didn't spot the jagged shadow wheel overhead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry this took a while. My family suffered a loss, so I had to help with funeral arrangements and all that jazz. This chapter's a little short, but actually quite important. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter Four

Jon missed Longclaw. 

Ashmun had lent him a dagger, but it certainly wasn’t the same. The grip was unfamiliar, the blade oddly heavy and made of a translucent blue-green material the elf has dubbed as ‘glass’. It was handy enough, Jon thought as he slashed at a wolf that had sprung out of the undergrowth. As it fell to the dirt, he was acutely reminded that he missed Ghost as well, though the wolves of Skyrim were smaller and more like rabid dogs than the graceful wolves Jon was familiar with. 

Ashmun wiped his blade on the flank of the wolf he had cut down, “Filthy beast,” he growled, crimson eyes sparking in the shade. Ever since their encounter with the Whiterun patrol, he’d become increasingly surly and agitated, “I always thought wolves were supposed to be beautiful creatures. The Skaal of Solstheim think they are sacred.” He started walking down the trail.

“Solstheim?” Jon hurried after him, the caravan in tow.

“An island north of Morrowind, a land of ash and snow. The Skaal are a village of Nords there, a cult, really. Live off by themselves and worship a being called the All-Maker.”

Jon frowned thoughtfully as he filed the information away, “Well, these wolves are a bit different than the ones at home in Westeros. More aggressive. And uglier,” he added as he nudged the dead wolf’s head with the toe of his boot, “I actually had a wolf back in Westeros. A direwolf, all white. I named him Ghost, and...I left him there in the North. Didn’t know where I was sailing to, and cooping a wolf up on a ship for gods knows how long…,” his lips twitched, “Well, you can imagine.”

The land grew more sere, and finally they came upon a series of rocky switchbacks that descended down the steep slopes of the thundering river rapids. Flowers sprouted from every crack beneath the last of the pines trees. The road split after they reached the bottom, sprawling away into the apparently endless expanse of grassland.

“This is Whiterun,” Ashmun supplied. He then lifted a gloved hand to point, “That’s the city, the center of trading for all of Skyrim.”

Whiterun sat atop a hill, reminding Jon so much of Winterfell that, for a moment, he thought he had somehow ended up back in Westeros. But no. The city was an impressive sight, buildings ascending upward. A proud hall rose above all, which Ashmun explained was called Dragonsreach because it had, once upon a time, imprisoned a dragon. 

The caravan had decided to make camp outside of the city walls. The Khajiit were not allowed inside, “it is the Nords.  They do not like outsiders in their land, and so we are forbidden to enter the cities. When they look upon us, they see only pickpockets and skooma dealers,” Ahkari muttered darkly as she and the others began to pitch their tents. They were careful to keep their bottle of skooma out of sight of the guards stationed on the walls above.

Ashmun took Jon up to the front gates, “You need some armor. And a better blade.”

“The dagger is perfectly fine,” Jon said.

“That may be, but you look more a swordsman to me. But first we have to speak to Jarl Balgruuf like your Imperial friend asked us to.”

Right. Jon had seen Hadvar a few days prior when they’d passed through Riverwood. The handsome soldier practically begged him to speak to the Jarl and ask for aid to protect the town in case the dragon came back. 

The two crossed over a lowered drawbridge and into a courtyard that overlooked the plains. Two guards stood at the massive wooden doors that led into the city and examined them harshly. Their eyes lingered on Jon’s ragged clothing and Ashmun’s pearlescent hair before they lowered their poleaxes to bar the entrance.

“Who’re you?” Asked one. 

“Ashmun of Morrowind, if it pleases you,” Ashmun supplied, flashing a bright smile.

“What brings you here, elf?”

“We have news to deliver to your Jarl. Helgen has fallen to a dragon. Riverwood calls for the Jarl’s aid.”

“Is that so?” The guard’s voice dripped with skepticism. “You don’t look much like couriers. Half-starved refugees is more like it.”

“We've had trouble on the road.”

“That I believe,” the guard chuckled scornfully, raising his spear. The other followed suit, “All right, you can pass, but if I see your hand in anyone’s pocket I’ll cut it off m’self. You’ll find the Jarl up in Dragonsreach. Just keep going up.”

Inside, Whiterun was lovely, with clean cobblestone streets and quaint homes surrounded by patches of grass and wildflowers. People bustled up and down the main avenue, though many stole a glance at Ashmun, who sighed as he raised his hood to hide his face, “Right,” he said, eyes flashing, “First we have to go to Dragonsreach, and then-”

“The Cloud District. What on Nirn would you two need to go  _ there _ for?” A tall man with deep brown skin eyed them contemptuously.

“ Who are you?” Ashmun titled his head.

The man drew himself up arrogantly. “Nazeem. I own Chillfurrow farm. Very successful business, obviously,” he gestured at his fine clothes with a smirk, “I actually advise the Jarl on political matters. My input is invaluable, but I won’t go into detail, as it would likely go over your head. Still, if you have business with Jarl Balgruuf, I’d be more than happy to pass it onto him. No offense, but I don’t think he has time for the likes of you.” 

“I think we’ll let him decide that for himself,” Jon rolled his eyes and strode past the man, cutting up a set of stairs that led into a spacious courtyard. A large tree twisted up into the sky, reminding Jon of the Weirwoods back in Westeros, though its branches were curiously bare. 

“That’s the Gildergreen. It’s apparently sacred to Kynareth. And that’s Jorrvaskr-home of the Companions,” Ashmun gestured to a longhouse that looked as if it were constructed from the hull of a ship, “And that must be the way up to Dragonsreach.”

The stairs were steep, and by the time that reached the top, Jon’s legs were aching. Before them was a walkway ribbed by arches. The doors were ironbound and plain, but as Ashmun pushed them open, the hall inside was grand, with cavernous vaulted ceilings hanging with tapestries.

The hall ascended upward through several tiers of stairs. Courtiers thronged the place, seated at tables laden with fine food, lounging on chaises covered in pelts, and moving about the floor as they went about their business. Soft chatter filled the air, but dwindled away as Ashmun and Jon approached.

A man in red Imperial armor stood before the throne. Seated atop it with an immensely bored expression was who Jon assumed was the Jarl-a man of at least four decades with rich noble clothes and a circlet upon his honey-colored hair.

The Imperial was speaking, “It’s becoming ridiculous, my Jarl. If Kodlak doesn’t have those hounds muzzled, I’ve half a mind to march into Jorrvaskr and do it myself. It’s impossible to sleep with those beasts howling all night!”

“They’re hounds,” The Jarl said with a sigh, “They tend to do that. Still, I’ll have Avenicci send word to Kodlak about it.”

The Imperial bowed his head in thanks and departed. Jon stepped forward to take his place, but-

“What is the meaning of this?” A fierce looking woman stalked forward. She was tall and thin, bedecked in dark armor, and had the same crimson eyes and grayish skins as Ashmun. The resemblance ended there, for where Ashmun was elegant, it looked like this elf had been shaped by a far harsher hand. Deep wrinkles etched her face, her hair dull and coarse, and her brow heavy and sharp, giving her a sinister appearance, “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving any more visitors,” she growled at them.

Ashmun raised his hands in a placating gesture, then lowered his hood. His hair gleamed like silk in the warm gold light, “We come bearing news of an attack in Helgen,  _ Muthsera _ . Riverwood calls for the Jarl’s aid.”

“Is that so?” Balgruuf looked at him curiously, “What happened?”

“A dragon,” Jon supplied, “A dragon destroyed Helgen. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“By Ysmir, you speak truly?” The Jarl looked astonished, “It does make a certain amount of sense. My men on the Western Watchtower reported smoke rising from the White River Valley ereyesterday, along with the distant roars of some monstrous beast in the night. If it’s true, then you two have done me a great service.” He turned to the man on his right, a slender, tan, balding man, “Avenicci, take out friends here to the court wizard Farengar. He’ll undoubtedly want to know more.”

The man nodded and beckoned Jon and Ashmun to follow. They wove through the court and found themselves in an annex. Several desks were lined up in the center of the room, papers stacked atop them in disarray. Odd items littered the table, and a man in a hooded robe was bent over a table complete with a miniature furnace and beakers. 

“Farengar, the Jarl has brought these two...travelers to speak to you. They claim that there was a dragon in Helgen.”

“A dragon? How exciting!” The man stood and turned to face them. Though his face was gaunt and wan, his eyes sparkled like a child’s in a sweet shop, “Most have dismissed dragons as mere fantasies. However, one sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible. You must tell me everything. What did it look like? What was it doing?”

Jon recounted the attack in as much detail as he could. Farengar quickly took up a parchment and began scribbling down notes. When it was finished, the wizard spent several additional minutes writing before he finally set his quill down and lifted his gaze to them.

“This is a fine addition to my research. I thank you. However, there is....something else. But only if you’re interested.”

“Can’t make that decision unless we know what it is,” Ashmun’s eyes flashed.

“Well, I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there. There’s plenty of Septims involved, plus all the riches you can carry. Those Nordic catacombs tend to be loaded. What do you say?”   


“So it goes from the top to bottom? Bear, dragonfly, owl?”

“Erm, moth, I think,” Ashmun looked over Jon’s shoulder to peer at the gilded key. It was in the shape of a dragon’s foot, and engraved with three shapes. Three shapes that were also engraved on the rings of a circular door before them, though they were not aligned and not in order, “I think we have to turn the rings.”

It was easier said than done. After lots of pushing and pulling, they finally managed to align the door so that it’s symbols matched the one on the claw, which they placed in the center ring, where it sank in with a click. 

The door shuddered, then slowly opened, sinking into the floor. Jon sighed in relief, but then furrowed his brows when a blast of cold wind hit his face.

“This must be the place,” he said, stepping over the door and into the chamber. It was a natural cave, although several platforms had been built. Jon picked his way over the rocks and the trickling brook, and finally up to the main dais, where a sealed iron coffin sat before a curved wall. He found his gaze drawn to the wall, which had the etchings of an odd language carved into its otherwise smooth surface, “What is this?”

Behind him, Ashmun examined the coffin. His eyes glowed in the half-light as he gave the wall a glance, “Oh. Those are just from the cults that holed up in these places. They’re all over Tamriel, but most common in Skyrim, where the...what are you doing, Jon Snow?”

Jon didn’t register the question. He found himself edging closer to the wall, unable to look away from it, as a set of the slash marks began to glow in front of him, “... _ force. _ ” he whispered, caught up completely by the mesmerizing light. 

“Er...sorry?”

The lights vanished. Jon blinked, then turned to Ashmun, who was staring at him with an incredulous expression, “What?”

“I should be asking that. What is  _ ‘foose’ _ ?”

“ _ Foose? _ No. I said ‘ _ force.’ _ Says it right…,” his eyes widened as he saw that the wall had inexplicably been wiped blank, “That’s not-”

A heavy thud split the air. Both Jon and Ashmun whirled around to watch as the coffin lid was thrown across the chamber, and an emaciated figure rose from its grave, bedecked in armor. It raised a rusted axe-

Ashmun moved faster than Jon thought possible. His khopesh struck the wights arm, splitting it in two. The axe hadn’t even hit the ground when the skeletal head was likewise separated. The corpse crumpled.

“See?” Ashmun didn’t even seem winded, “Just like the others. Fragile bones.” He ambled over to the coffin, and grinned as he reached inside, “And here it is!”

The tablet was smooth stone and depicted a map, “Er...Skyrim?” Jon guesed, “But what are these spots?”

“I dunno,” Ashmun flipped the tablet over and frowned at the scrawl of jagged slash marks across the back.

“ _ Here lie our fallen lords until the power of Destroyer Devour Master restores. _ ” Jon read. 

“You jest.”

“No jest. That’s what it says. Is the alphabet different here? I could have swore that the signs we passed on the road were written in Common….” he squinted at the letters. For some reason, it almost looked as if they were written in a different language, one composed of claw marks, “Like the ones on the wall. We have to get this back to the wizard. I’ve some questions for him.”

“As do  _ I _ , but in the morning. It’s night by now, and werewolves are known to roam these parts. Best we not give them something to chase.”

They made camp in the shelter of an overhang. Ashmun had built a small fire and was sitting next to it, whittling a piece of wood. Jon eyed him for a long moment, then stood and drew the sword he had scavenged off of a bandit earlier in their adventure. Ashmun tensed, though his face remained calm. “Would you like to spar?” Jon asked him.

Ashmun tossed the wood to the side. “With sharpened swords? Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

“All the reason for me to fight harder.” Ashmun hesitated, but eventually climbed to his feet and drew his khopesh. Then the elf lunged forward, swiping at Jon’s shoulder. Their blades met in midair. Jon disengaged with a flourish, thrust, and then riposted as Ashmun parried, dancing away, “Oh, you’re  _ quick _ !”

The two struggled back and forth, trying to batter each other down. After a particularly intense series of blows, Jon couldn’t help but to laugh. Not only was it impossible for him to gain an advantage, but they were so evenly matched that they were tiring at the same rate. Acknowledging this with shared grins, they fought on until their arms were leaden and sweat poured from their brows.

Finally, Jon called it. “Enough!” Ashmun stopped midblow and sat down with a gasp. Staggering to the ground, chest heaving, Jon said, “I’ve studied swordplay all my life, but I’ve never fought one like you.”

“As I you,” Ashmun observed, “Who taught you?”

“My father’s Master of Arms, mostly. I picked up the rest as I went.”

“Well, you certainly are quite the warrior. Why don’t you take up the sword with the Dawnguard, like I’m doing?”

“I thought of that,” Jon gazed into the fire in front of him. Some part of him was tempted to stick his hand in the flame, but he shoved the compulsion away, “Vampire hunters, yeah?”

“Aye.”

“What determines whether a vampire is to be killed?” Jon asked, “Its crimes, or its existence?”

Ashmun shifted uncomfortably, “Some say their existence in itself is a crime. Vampires only become vampires if they allow themselves to. The process of doing so is a long one, and so there’s plenty of time to be cured, if you can afford it.”

“And if you can’t? What about if you only take from bandits? Or animals? Or someone who freely allows it?” Jon couldn’t help but think of the Free Folk in Westeros, who for centuries were killed out of hand for simply being North of the Wall and unlucky enough to cross paths with the Night’s Watch, “I cannot be part of a people who kill so indiscriminately. Not again.”

“Oh. I can respect that,” Ashmun said, “Though I’m afraid I’m under orders from House Redoran. ‘Fight with the Dawnguard,’ they said. ‘Put yourself to good use there, and we’ll consider letting you come back, for you’ll prove yourself to be more than this pathetic creature we see before us now.” His words were bitter.

“Exile,” Jon thought it an odd coincidence. When Ashmun passed him his wineskin, Jon lifted it up in a toast, “To new beginnings for the both of us, then.”

Then he drank deeply to forget what came before, at least for a while.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashmun heads towards his only chance at salvation and finds a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOO I'M BACK!  
> Sorry, I've had a lot of stuff to do lately, and have been chipping away at this chapter throughout. Now it's done so without further ado, here it is!

“You found it!” Farengar exclaimed in delight as Ashmun handed the tablet over, “But...if I may ask, where is that friend of yours?”

“Nursing a vicious hangover,” Pulling out a chair and sinking into it, Ashmun glanced around to make sure no one else was nearby before lowering his hood, “I did you a favor, and I know it wasn’t part of our arrangement, but I need your services.” He lifted his gaze to the wizard, whose guileless eyes widened as he realized what sat before him.

Farengar slashed his hand through the air, and the air behind them gleamed with a ward that Ashmun knew would make the room appear empty and silent. “How long have you been living with this?” The mage’s voice was oddly muffled.

“Since before I left Morrowind. That was in late Second Seed. I-I can feel it getting worse, and I know Cure is expensive, but I need something to take the edge off.”

“I’m sorry, but even if I had Cure, I don’t think it would do much good. The virus is at an advanced stage now, and...you said you were joining the  _ Dawnguard _ ? Isn’t that....”

Ashmun didn’t need the wizard to finish his sentence, “It’s a terrible idea, but my fellow kinsmen thought it a good way to discover a true cure. House Redoran is no friend to anything Daedric in origin, and so they made  _ this _ ,” he gestured at himself, “An opportunity of sorts.”

“I see.” Farengar ambled over to a shelf and plucked up a small red bottle, “Well, my friend, this should delay the progression for a time. For your help with the Dragonstone, it’s on me. And of course your reward,” he set a heavy coin purse before Ashmun, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to my studies.”

The potion was chalky and bitter, but Ashmun much preferred its flavor to the metallic tang that accompanied his hunger. It felt warm and heavy in his stomach, and for the first time in days, he felt sated.

He’d held out another three days before finally giving in and drinking the potion. That morning when he woke up he thought the sun was stabbing his eyes, and realized that it was because of the virus ravaging his body. 

The wagon trundled onward. To his left was Lake Honrich, an expanse of gleaming silver water dotted with islands. On the far shore sat Riften, crouching like a predator, half hidden in fog. The driver would take him there, and the rest of the trip would be up to him, though admittedly it wasn’t more than a half-day’s walk. 

“I’ve never been to the Thieves’ City,” Ashmun said aloud, “What’s it like?”

“Dirty,” his driver, a Nord named Bjorlam, spoke as if something sour was under his tongue, “Though if given the chance, I’d be sure to dip into the Black-Briar Meadery. Few mugs of that and you’ll forget all your troubles.”

“The Black-Briars.” Ashmun said with a similar distaste. He’d heard about the family's exploits - the mother, Maven Black-Briar, was known to call assassins on anyone who threatened her business or political position. She and Ashmun had actually met once, when he was visiting Raven’s Rock. She had traveled there for the express purpose of hiring Redoran warriors as mercenaries, which Ashmun had declined. “Hire out someone of the Morag Tong,” he had told her, “House Redoran does not sell their services to outlanders.”

By Vivec, she had not been happy. And Ashmun, with his platinum hair and Altmer looks, was far from indistinguishable. He felt on edge as the city loomed closer, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his khopesh. 

He missed Jon. He’d stayed behind in Whiterun to join the Companions. He’d tried to do as Gray-Mane asked, and snuck into Jorrvaskr to find the hounds, but only succeeded in running into one of the members. They had fought, and by some odd turn of fate, he had impressed the others so much with his swordplay that they had extended an invitation for him to join the guild. 

Which was good for him, though Ashmun wanted to keep an eye on him. Something about the Akavirian was off, and it wasn’t the fact that he had come from the west. No. He had  _ seen  _ something Ashmun had not back at Bleak Falls, and claimed to have read the tablet and it’s mysterious language with ease, saying that it appeared as Tamrielic to him. 

But this was far more important.

The wagon trundled up to the front doors of Riften. It was, as Bjorlam had claimed, a dirty city-Ashmun’s nose wrinkled at the noxious smell of sewage and fish that hung in the air. The walls were made of damp stone and dark with grime.

At the gates, a girl was arguing with one of the guards. “This is obviously a shakedown,” she drawled, just loud enough for innocent passerby to overhear.

The guard snarled something at her, but it was already too late. Ashmun strode over and tilted his head as he looked down at the guard with a smirk, “Trouble?”

The girl was a slight thing, but up close, Ashmun could tell she wasn’t nearly as young as she had first appeared. Almost twenty, he guessed, but her large eyes and round face gave her a childish look. A rapier hung from her hip, and she stood in a relaxed, yet vigilant pose that suggested she was ready to spring to action at a moment’s notice. 

“Visitor’s tax,” the guard grunted, “10 gold.”

“Oh please, aren’t you deep blue cities against such things? Still, I suppose you’ll do  _ anything _ to insult outsiders. Maven will be most displeased.”

“Maven?” The man’s voice tightened, “Alright, I’ll let you in. Just keep this between us, eh?”

Once they were inside, the girl gave him a sideways look, “So, you know Maven Black-Briar?”

“I once granted her an audience, yes. We’re not exactly on good terms, but-,” Ashmun shrugged, “why would a lowly Hold Guard dare inquire further?” he chuckled and then turned to face her with a slight bow, “My friends call me Ashmun.”

“Arya Stark,” the girl smiled sweetly, though her eyes remained cool and cautious, “I suppose I must thank you for helping me back there.”

“The pleasure was all mine. I find it rather distasteful when people don’t show respect to those of fairer means. But this city was built on distaste, no?” His eyes swept over the scene before him.

Riften was situated over a canal that sat stagnant. Flies swarmed over the soupy water, and humidity hung heavy in the air. The wood of the walkways was stained with decades of filth, and the people at the market stood with their hands never far from their weapons, “I guess,” Arya Stark shrugged, “But the work pays.”

Ashmun could respect that, “Well, Arya Stark. I believe this is where you and I must part ways. There’s a featherbed calling my name at the inn. What kind of man would I be to keep its warm embrace waiting?” He asked with a grin. Then, bowing theatrically once more, he left her and strode over to the front doors of the inn.

The dingy tavern felt unsafe. A fire smoldered in the fireplace, yet no one bothered to throw more wood on it. People nursed their drinks with sullen as a Redguard priest in yellow robes glared at them all in turn.

“People of Riften, heed my words. The return of the dragons is not mere coincidence. This is one of the signs. The signs that Lady Mara is displeased with your constant inebriation. Put down your flagons filled with your vile liquids, and embrace the teachings of the handmaiden of Kyne.”

Ashmun chuckled and crossed the floor. Word in Skyrim got around fast. 

“ _ Maramel _ ,” A raspy voice sighed from the bar. Looking over, Ashmun saw an Argonian maiden standing behind the bar, shooting daggers at the priest with her orange eyes, “We talked about this,” she hissed.

“Keerava, certainly we can come to some sort of understanding? These people must be made aware of the chaos they've sown."

“Enough,” another Argonian, this one male, stepped in front of the priest, “We’ve all heard of the dragon. There’s no need to use it as an excuse to harass our customers.”

The priest stalked out, and Ashmun turned to the maiden Keerava, “Well, hello,” he gave a smile, “What’s a bloke like me got to do to get a drink ‘round here?”

The Argonian grinned back, revealing a wide mouthful of crocodile-like teeth, “Pay for it,” She sneered in an overly loud voice, “If you got the coin, you’re welcome here. If not, hit the road.”

“Ah, just so happens I do,” he popped a handful of septims on the counter, “I’ll have some mead and a room for the night.” He flicked his hood back and his hair tumbled out in a cascade of silken white-gold.

Keerava’s eyes widened at the sight, and she brightened considerably as she swept the coins off of the bar, “Would m’lord like his mead here or brought up to his room?” She asked sweetly.

“To my room, if it pleases you. I’ve traveled for quite some time, and find myself rather weary.”

“I’ll show you to your room, then.” The Argonian grabbed a key from under the bar and headed for the staircase leading to the second floor. Ashmun trailed her, pretending not to notice the exaggerated sway in her hips. 

“So,” he drawled, “What’s the word ‘round here?”

“They say that the Thieves Guild has been pushing hard to regain a foothold in this city. Rumor has it they're falling apart from the inside. People here are certain that they have started taking in street urchins-a little girl apparently snuck past Aringoth's private guard at Goldenglow to set his beehives on fire. I hope that doesn't cause Maven Black-Briar to raise her prices. I’d have to start watering down my mead to make ends meet.”

“That would be a shame,” Ashmun agreed. Keerava unlocked a door to reveal a small, yet cozy room, complete with a furnace to keep warm and wash basin. The bed was thrown with furs and linen, and he couldn’t wait to sink into it. But first, he turned to the wash basin, “Well, thank you, my fair lady. I think I’m going to clean myself up now, and- _ Gods’ Grief! _ ”

Keerava had seated herself on the bed. She had also rid herself of the top stays of her dress so her scaly breasts were bared.

“I-,” Ashmun didn’t know what to say. 

“It’s not often that my guests are as handsome as you,” the Argonian purred, laying back and further exposing her bosom, “I’m sure you’re sore from your travels.”

“Yes, but-,”

An awful thud hit the air. Ashmun barely registered the initial pain as he whirled around to see the other Argonian behind him, yellow eyes blazing with rage and anticipation.

Then Ashmun became aware of something cold biting into his shoulder. Reaching back for it, his body shrieked in pain and he realized the lizard had stabbed him. 

“Oh  _ no _ ,” Ashmun said sarcastically as he used his other arm to pull the blade out. It was a cheese knife, of all things, smeared with his blood. The wound was already mending, no doubt due to his infection, “A cheese knife?  _ Really? _ For what? Your wife here was the one out-of-bounds. I never asked for her to flash her tits at me.” he straightened, towering over the other Argonian, who cringed backward, his scaly face going slack with a sudden horror, “ _ What? _ ” 

“ _ Vampire!” _ The Argonian screamed.

Ashmun ran. He was out of the room and down the steps in the blink of an eye, and everything seemed oddly slow around him. He watched as the bar patrons turned their heads, but no one quite followed him as he shoved the doors open and rushed outside into the streets. The stink was much stronger now, but also laced with something else-something hot and sweet and irresistibly delicious. His feet stilled as he paused atop a bridge that stretched over the canal and turned, seeking out the source of the smell. 

The doors of the inn flew open, and people were rushing out. Many had drawn weapons, other torches, and all of them were fragrant with the scent underneath a thin veneer of salted sweat and musk. 

All of them also seemed determined to kill him.

Suddenly, the spell broke. Ashmun blinked, and life sped up once more. The bar patrons swarmed toward the bridge Ashmun stood on, screaming for him to be killed. Whipping around, Ashmun went to dash away, but found that several guards had already run up, pointing their halberds at him behind round shields. 

He was surrounded.

“Look, I didn’t ask for this.” Ashmun raised his hands in a placating gesture, though it didn’t help that the blood from his wound stained his fingers. “ _ Please.  _ I mean no trouble, I  _ swear _ !” His voice jumped in pitch as more guards ran up, brandishing torches. Flames snapped through the night as both parties slowly advanced toward him.

“You will  _ burn!”  _ Someone screamed.

Ashmun didn’t want to burn. The canal below glinted dully in the corner of his vision, and just like that, he had an idea. 

He pitched himself over the side of the bridge and plunged into the water below.

The canal was disgusting-reeking of filth and warm as soup-but Ashmun forged through it and clawed his way over the docks where several neglected boats had been moored. He waited under the surface, holding his breath just like he had been taught to do in Morrowind in the case of a particularly nasty soot storm. A minute passed, then two, and only when his lungs began to cry for air did he dare look above the surface.

The mob had dispersed. No doubt they thought he had drowned. Looking around once more to make sure it was safe, he paddled over the dock and pulled himself out of the water.

“Rough night?”

The girl Arya was perched atop a weather pile, idly sharpening her slender rapier with an expression of feigned boredom, “you startled me,” Ashmun admitted once his heart stopped hammering in his throat.

“Sorry,” Arya said, obviously not sorry at all, “old habit. They want you dead.”

“Oh, what gave that away?” Ashmun wrinkled his nose in disgust as he looked down at his armor. Idly, he realized his hands were shaking. “I suppose you’ll be the one to deliver my head, hmm?”

“Have you done something to make yourself deserve death?” The girl asked casually. It seemed ludicrous that someone who looked so young and naive could speak so lightly about killing. Unless, of course, you saw the sword in her hands. It had the look of a weapon that was used often, “Other than having vampirism, that is.” She rose an eyebrow as Ashmun gave her a quizzical look, “You think I’ve not seen it before? I live in the  _ Ratway. _ ”

“I don’t have it. Not yet,” Ashmun confessed, “But I am well on the way, and I’ve tried everything I can to rid myself of it. I’ve had Cure, received multiple blessings…it just  _ won’t. _ It’s too late. Unless I can find another way, which is why I’m headed off to the Dawnguard.”

For a while, the only sound was the slap of water in the canal and the rasp of the whetstone as Arya sharpened her blade with an expert hand.

“The Dawnguard,” she said slowly. Then: “That's a death wish.”

“For most people, but I’m expected.” 

“Well you’ve picked a good time to be in Riften, then. There’s an orc named Durak who recruits for them, and he’s staying at Haelga’s Bunkhouse for the night. We can find him tomorrow.”

“ _ We? _ ”

“Yeah, well, with the entire city out for your blood, you’re going to need help if you want to make it out of here alive,” Arya Stark said matter-of-factly, “For now, though, you need to lay low. Come with me. I’ll take you somewhere the guards won’t ever dare to look.”

“Lass, I thought I told you we can’t have visitors down here.” A tall, burly man stepped out of the shadows. 

Ashmun was too busy taking in his surroundings. Arya had led him through a labyrinth of tunnels, past long-abandoned catacombs and sewers, traps and hidden doors until finally they had found themselves at an underground pub, though the word barely covered the battered bar and random assortment of furniture scattered about the space. 

If the Bee and the Barb had felt unsafe, what could be said about this place?

The patrons were ragged-looking folk, pale from living underground and scarred from many a fight. A bald man missing several fingers sat alone, hunched over a tankard of watery-looking beer. A skinny blonde woman scowled at Ashmun as she twirled a knife between her fingers, and the fellow before him frowned at Arya as he awaited her reply. 

“They were going to kill him, Brynjolf,” Arya Stark protested, “He just needs to stay the night. I’m going to get him out of town tomorrow, I swear.”

“Is that so?” The man was a Nord, broad and tall like the majority of his kinsmen. He had the same icy eyes as well, and they regarded Ashmun suspiciously. “Don’t like those eyes you got.  _ Sanguinare Vampiris _ , eh?” he chuckled as Ashmun tensed, “It’s alright lad.. We don’t discriminate down here. Unless we find you preying on one of our own, that is. Name’s Brynjolf. I’d shake your hand, but you look like you could use a bath. No offense.”

“ _ Bryn _ ,” the barkeep slammed the mug down, “You don’t know if he’s a spy. Maven will have our heads if she has to bribe Unmid again.”

“Unmid would never trust an elf as an errand boy,” The thin woman snarled from her place in the corner, “I don’t trust him, either.”

“You don’t trust anyone, Vex,” Brynjolf sighed, “Fine. He can stay. But only if he has a bath.”

“Trust me. I am more than happy to oblige.” Ashmun told him. 

He wasn’t as happy as he thought he would be, because apparently the Thieves Guild had no privacy.

Ashmun was first rid of his armor, then given some lye soap, a brush, and a tower that looked like it was a hundred years old, before he was directed to the cistern to bathe. What made this so bad was that the pool of water was in the center of the main chamber, and nobody seemed bothered by the fact that he was about to bathe naked in a reservoir of what was to be drinking water.

Arya was already in the pool. Ashmun blanched when he noticed that she was perfectly naked beneath the water. Upon seeing his face, the girl laughed and sipped from a goblet. 

“Modest, eh?” She quirked a slender eyebrow, “Don’t worry. I used to prepare corpses. Can’t be much uglier than a water-bloated dead man.”

Ashmun rolled his eyes, then after taking a deep lungful of dank air, stripped. His clothes dropped to his feet before he lowered himself into the cistern only releasing his breath once he had acclimated to the frigid water that lapped at his waist.

In the shard of light dancing around the chamber, Arya’s skin was painted with a patchwork of crystals. Her hair was plastered to the sides of her face, making her eyes seem ever bigger and more innocuous as she gazed curiously at Ashmun, who was becoming more uncomfortable by the second as he scrubbed himself down.

“Is something wrong?” he finally demanded.

“No,” she said quickly. Then she smiled. A natural smile, lopsided and wolfish. “You’re actually quite... _ pretty _ when you’re not covered in dirt and shit water.”

“Thanks,” Ashmun said dryly. He then dunked his head under the water with an explosion of bubbles. Resurfacing, he worked the lye soap into a lather and drew it through his hair, which brightened as he stripped away weeks worth of filth, “So,” he ventured, “You’re a thief.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“How did a lady of nobility standing end up living in a sewer with a motley band of cutpurses?” He saw Arya’s eyebrows slash together, and held up a finger, “You have the manner of a noble. The way you walk. Your swords’ marked with a house sigil, though not one I’m familiar…” he paused as the image of the wolf’s head swam before his eyes, jogging another memory, “Actually, I  _ have  _ seen it before. Would you...are you Jon’s sister?”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunions and revelations.

“ _ Where is he? _ ” Arya shot up straight in the water, ignoring the elf’s shocked look as she stood there with her chest revealed for all the world to see. Not that there was much there, she thought savagely to herself for a fleeting moment. 

Ashmun of Morrowind, on the other hand, was a sight to see. Slender as a knife, with gray skin so smooth and dewy that he almost seemed to shine silver in the watery light of the cistern. And his hair. Even sopping wet it was as white as light itself, practically glowing in the dim of the cistern that the Thieves Guild called home. 

His lovely red-gold eyes were wide as he fumbled with his words, “Uh….he- he’s- Whiterun, last I saw him. Joined up the Companions.”

“That’s definitely him,” Arya surged out of the cistern and snatched up her towel. Outside of the water, his skin quickly erupted with goosebumps, and she shivered in the chilly air, “I’m already going there for a job. Guess I’ll be heading out early. Night-time’s good for avoiding spiders.”

“You’re leaving now?” The elf’s eyes flashed nervously, glowing dazzling gold for a brief moment, “What about Durak?”

“Rune or someone will take you,” Arya told him, “Just ask. Once you’re inside these walls, you’ll find that us thieves and cutthroats look out for each other.” She marched over to the chest at the foot of her straw mattress bed to pull out a set of armor that she quickly shrugged on after donning a simple tunic and leggings. The armor itself was leather, tough, yet supple and light. Perfect for a thief to lurk about in. 

“Girl!” A gravelly, hoarse voice cut the air, “Where do you think you’re going?”

Mercer Frey was a small man, but he compensated what he was lacking in height with unpleasantness. His small eyes glinted with cunning as he sneered at Arya with a sour face curtained by greasy, graying hair.

“Whiterun,” Arya kept her voice even as she continued gathering what she needed for the journey, “Maven Black-Briar wants me to sabotage Honningbrew Meadery and find out some information for her about Sabjorn and his silent partner. She thinks it might have to do with the buyer of Goldenglow Estate.

“Well, Maven knows that  _ I’m  _ the Guild Master around here, and I have to approve jobs before she sends you out on her errands. Still...I’m eager to learn who this mystery buyer is. Very well.” He turned back toward his desk, “This is also a reminder that Maven is not the forgiving type. You might have gotten away with your little stunt at Goldenglow, but I’m certain that a second mistake would have dire consequences for you, girl. Don’t fuck this up.”

A half hour later she was on her way, riding upon the back of Frost. He was Brynjolf’s horse-a prize he’d won by double crossing a man who conspired to steal him from the Black-Briars. Maven couldn’t have cared less for the horse, but jumped at the opportunity to show Riften what happened to people who crossed her, and when all was said and done and the man was dead, the white horse had been gifted to Brynjolf.

The ride from Riften to Whiterun was a long one, as there was no easy way to get there. One had to descend from the Rift, a thousand feet of treacherous switchbacks on the side of a cliff, then make their way around the base of the Throat of the World, a huge mountain that was said to be fifteen leagues across. The trip on horseback took three days-two days if one really pushed it or had a good horse.

Frost, by all definitions, was a fine steed, else the Black-Briars would not have owned him. He and Arya reached the golden sweep of Whiterun two days later, just as the sky turned that deep blue rimmed with blazing gold on the horizon as the sun dipped low.

She went right past Honningbrew, though she did note the meadery. First she had to go into the city, however, and speak to Maven’s contact.

And see Jon. She was excited beyond words to see her brother. Frost seemed to pick up on it and, despite being tired from hard riding, picked up his pace so that they trotted past the farms and houses outside of the city walls.

And there he was. 

Arya pulled Frost’s reins back, forcing the horse to a sudden halt. There was Jon, wearing his studded black armor and wielding a steel sword as he stood amongst two other warriors and faced down a giant.

Arya had only seen giants once back in Westeros, and they had been wights. Still, they had been sturdy things, with limbs like tree trunks and domed shaped heads without much neck. The giants of Skyrim were just as tall, but far more gangly, with pale skin marked by swirling scars they applied to themselves. They carried massive clubs, and despite their weedy appearance, could send a full grown man into the stratosphere if they felt like it. 

The warriors converged on the giant, striking fast and hard before scurrying out of the strike zone. Jon slashed at its knees, and the giant let out a roar of agony as it stumbled. A woman with a face striped by warpaint swung an ax as the giant fell, and then they all hacked at it until it moved no more. 

Arya crept closer, watching with fascination as the woman suddenly cut the dead giant’s toes off one by one and dropped them into a purse, “Well, that’s taken care of,” she announced, “No thanks to you, girl.”

Arya froze as the woman turned around. She was a wild beauty, with dark hair and pale yellow eyes. She wore steel armor that has bits of green Elven Glass embedded in it, and an axe decorated with the swirling grooves found everywhere in Nordic society. “Didn’t look like you needed any help,” she said loudly, “Especially with my brother at your side.”

Fifty paces away, Jon turned around. His dark eyes widened as Arya lifted her gaze to his, and then his face split into a sweet smile as she ran forward and flung herself into his arms. Normally, Arya wasn’t fond of physical contact, but after so long on her own, having Jon there was enough to make her crumble.

“Yeah....er….” Jon’s voice was a bit hoarse. He extracted himself as gently as he could and blinked several times, eyes shining, “It’s really good to see you.”

Arya wrinkled her nose at him, “Are you going to make me ask? I thought you were staying in the North, you ass.”

Jon cracked a grin, “I left.”

“I guess  _ that  _ much. Why? Bored of playing in the snow?”

“Uh….not exactly. It...it’s a long story. But it hardly matters. I’m here now. Arya, these are my Shield-kin Vilkas and Aela the Huntress.”

Vilkas gave her a curt nod without saying anything. However, Aela frowned at her and said, “She doesn’t look much like you, Jon.”

“That’s another long story, and not one I’m willing to tell sober. Let’s get back to Jorrvaskr if you want to hear it, because I’m only telling it once and I intend to be piss drunk when I do so.”

Arya had never been to Whiterun before. She’d seen it on the maps, but in truth the Thieves Guild tended to avoid work there. The city was in the center of Skyrim and served as a hub of commerce. Because of that, the laws regarding thievery in Whiterun were extremely strict, so it was rarely worth the risk.

The city was clean and orderly, with cobblestone streets and buildings set in plots thick with wildflowers that waved cheerfully in the breeze. People bustled about their business while children wove between them, laughing as they chased a dog down the main avenue. The crowd parted for the Companions, nodding their heads and calling out greetings as a sign of respect to the warriors. Aela held her head high as they wound their way upward.

Their home was an inverted longship up the slope off from a circular courtyard with a massive tree. Shields covered the roof, depicting fierce wolves. Lantern glowed from posts carved into the likeliness of totems, each depicting patterns of different animals the Nords considered sacred.

Inside, the main hall was more similar to a hunting lodge. The floor was stone and carpeted with animal skins: deer, bears, and a twelve foot long shadowcat that Arya would  _ not  _ want to have met when it was alive. In the center of the floor room, a fire crackled in a rectangular pit. Around it were several tiers of tables and chaises. A few warriors lounged in the common area, laughing and drinking from silver goblets.

Columns made from rough hewn wood held up the cavernous roof, which was lined with red and gold drapery and mounted animal heads. Polished weapons and shields gleamed on the walls. Warm light radiated from the fire and iron-work chandeliers.

Jon flung himself into a chair at the table and snatched up a goblet. When he slammed it down his eyes were shining, “Alright,” he said, “Get comfortable. I’m only telling this once.”

He began with Robert Baratheon’s visit to Winterfell and went from there. He told stories Arya had never heard before from his time in the Night’s Watch, how they first discovered the dead were rising, how he was captured by wildlings during his first ranging. How they battled the wildlings but were hopelessly outnumbered. Stannis Baratheon’s aid brought the refugees to heel, and how Jon became Commander of the Watch. He skirted around certain details, keeping the location vague and only mentioning that he was betrayed by his brothers before he left to fight for Winterfell and won. The Long Night. The Battle of King’s Landing, and how he was exiled after Daenarys was killed, though he failed to mention that it was he who did it or that they were related and he was the rightful heir. The way he worded and omitted made it seem as if it could have happened between High Rock, Cyrodill and Atmora, the frozen continent to the far north of Tamriel. 

As Jon spoke, more Companions turned up. One passed his a drink as he took a long pause. Arya could see his eyes shining as he struggled with recounting Daenarys’ death. 

“Then, after that, I came here. Landed in Morrowind and traveled inland. Went to come into Skyrim from the Cyrodiil gate in the Rift, but I was captured along with a unit of Stormcloaks. They put us in carts and traveled along the northern border of Bruma and brought us to Helgen, where we were to be executed. Only one Stormcloak was killed before a dragon attacked and destroyed the place. I’m sure you’ve heard about it,” Jon knocked back another mug of mead, “And then I ended up here. The end.”

There was a long silence. 

“You tell a good story, Jon Snow.” Aela finally said, “And I think we can all agree that necromancy is a right pain in the ass. You say your sister here killed this...Night King? The very one who slayed a dragon with a single spear throw?”

“Aye,” Jon’s words were slurred, “snuck up on the icy fucker, but he caught wrist. Little Arya though, she might be small, but she’s clever as a cat. She dropped her Valyrian steel dagger and plunged it right into his gut. The dragon I was fighting in the courtyard dropped dead...again. Which was lucky, as it was about to burn…,” he paused and frowned, eyes settling on the candles flickering in front of him. 

Vilkas turned toward Arya, “Is this true?”

She nodded and drew her dagger. The Valyrian steel gleaned wickedly in the firelight, it ripples glittering as she flipped it around to present the hilt to the warrior, “They say Valyrian blades were forged with dragon’s breath. Which is why they could kill the White Walkers.”

Vilkas’ pale yellow eyes studied the dagger for a long moment, “It’s lighter than Skyforge steel,” he said wonderingly. Seeing Arya’s confused look, he drew his sword, a bastard sword that reminded Arya of Longclaw, which made her wonder what happened to Jon’s trusted blade. The Imperials that captured him probably took it, she figured before turning back to Vilkas.

“Looks like it was made in a similar way,” Arya said, “It’s a fine weapon, though too heavy for me.”

Next to Vilkas, a man who looked very much like him laughed, “Oh come _ on,  _ brother.” he scolded when Vilkas did not get the jest. “You’re much too serious.”

“And you’re much too flippant. We balance each other out, you and I.” He stuck his sword back into its sheath and reached for a goblet. He drank deeply, “My brother Farkas. He has the strength of Ysgramor, while I have the smarts.”

“I’m a dumb shit,” Farkas said simply, “But I can tear a head clean off its body with my bare hands.”

Vilkas frowned at him, “I can do that too, idiot. It’s less of a brute strength thing than it is a technique. And we learned from the best.”

Arya picked up a loaf of bread and bit into it, “Where’d you learn to fight?” she asked behind a mouthful.

“Here. Farkas and I were raised here after our parents died, first by our uncle Jergan, and when he was killed in the Great War, by Skjor and Kodlak and of course Tilma,” Vilkas nodded toward a wizened old crone sweeping the floor with a broom. “But enough about me. Jon said you’re a noble?”

“Was,” Arya corrected, “I left that life when I came to Skyrim. They wanted to make a lady out of me.”

Vilkas snorted. “Their loss. Women are fiercer by far than men. You seem to be making quite a life for yourself. That’s a gorgeous animal you left in the stables. Fit for a queen.”

“My friend lent him to me. I suppose I should be getting back to him now.”

“Whatever for? You’re not...you’re not going to  _ sleep in the stables,  _ are you? Don’t you know these plains are the hunting ground for werewolves and worse? Neither your dagger nor toad sticker there will do much good against a bloodthirsty beast the size of a horse.” He shook his head, “You can sleep in the living quarters here. There’s plenty of room, and I wouldn’t leave the kin of a shield brother like Jon out on the streets, much less beyond the walls of the city.”

“That’s very kind,” Arya told him. Then she yawned, “Any chance I can go there now?”

Arya excelled at sleeping lightly. Not only was this because she had been a fugitive for years, but also because she had been trained to do so in Bravos when she had aspired to become a Faceless Man. The Waif that had delighted in tormenting her took a perverse enjoyment in whipping her with a switch whenever she caught Arya asleep, and did so until she had been able to awaken herself before the strike could be administered. 

Arya woke herself an hour before dawn. Around her, the warriors of Jorrvaskr were dead to the world, and no one noticed as she stole away.

Well, except for one person. She should have known that Jon, who had been quite literally stabbed in the back by his own men, would be an uneasy sleeper, “...Arya?” he called quietly, his voice dark and husky with sleeping, “Where'er you going?”

“Don’t worry,” she whispered back, feeling guilty as she added, “I’m going to use the privy.”

It technically wasn’t a lie. But when she finished, Arya slipped out the back doors of Jorrvaskr into the training yard, which was deserted. She then followed the streets up to the front doors of the inn and slipped inside.

“There you are!” A dark haired Imperial scowled at her from a table in the corner. The only other people in sight were two guards passed out on the floor.

“Maven said you were expecting me,” Arya said to Mallus Maccius, crossing the room and sitting in the chair opposite his.

“Yes. I’m going to keep this short and sweet ‘cause we’ve a lot to do,” he said in a harsh voice not unlike Mercer Frey’s, “Honningbrew’s owner, Sabjorn, is about to hold a tasting for Whiterun's Captain of the Guard and we're going to poison the mead.”

Arya felt her eyebrows raise, “Well, do you have the poison?”

“No, no. That's the beauty of it. We're going to get Sabjorn to give it to us. The meadery has  _ quite _ a pest problem and the whole city knows about it. Pest poison and mead don't mix well, you know what I mean?" He smirked. “Maven and I spent weeks planning this. All we need is someone like you to get in there and get it done. Now get going before Sabjorn grows a brain and hires someone else to do the dirty work."

Right. Without another word Arya stood and left the inn, careful to keep herself hidden from sight. She crept along the inside perimeter of Whiterun’s wall, pausing only when she saw the glow of a guard’s torch. At a particularly crumbling section of stone, she slipped outside and soon came across Frost tethered at the stables. 

All left to do now was wait a bit. Propping herself up against the back of the stall, Arya closed her eyes and allowed herself to doze off once more.

A yelp split the air.

She was up with Needle drawn in a heartbeat. Frost stamped and let out a harsh screech as he wheeled around in the stable to face a monster with blazing yellow eyes and dripping teeth.

A werewolf, just like Vilkas had warned.

Its fur was wiry and dark, it’s snout much broader than a wolf’s, it stood on two legs, and it's long arms bearing claws as long as Arya’s fingers. It snarled at her, its eye glowing with madness and hunger, but it did not advance. In fact, it was creeping backward slowly, back into the grass as Frost continued to stomp the ground as if he were about to charge. With a jolt, Arya realized that the horse had actually kicked the beast-a semicircle of red, oozing skin was opened on its abdomen. 

“ _ There! _ ”

An arrow thudded into the dirt a few paces away from the werewolf. Now it did run, streaking off into the grass as more arrows rained down from the walls above. Within moments, it was gone, lost amongst the tall grass and dark.

Arya did not sleep again. She checked to make sure Frost was unhurt, then sat awake until the sun appeared and people began to emerge from their houses to tend to their crops.

The job was simple. After talking Sabjorn into letting her clear out the Skeevers, (rats the size of cats, gross.) she wound her way through an underground tunnel, killed the vermin she came across and poisoned the nest. There was also an old man who shot some blasts of lightning at her, but she threw up a ward and jabbed Needle into his throat. 

She still had plenty of poison. The tunnel connected to the boilery, which she entered and emptied the bottle into the open vat. 

Thirty minutes later, Sabjorn was being marched to the prison beneath Dragonsreach by the queasy and furious-looking Captain of the Guard. Arya watched as he went from her hiding place, then went back inside the main hall of the meadery to see that Mallus was already behind the bar, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“That couldn’t have gone better. Anything I can do for you before you head back to Riften?”

“I need to get a look at Sabjorn's books.”

“Maven wants to hunt down Sabjorn's private partner, huh?” He grinned. “ You're welcome to take a look around Sabjorn's office. He keeps most of his papers stashed in his desk. Here, this should help." He pulled out a key ring and set it on the counter.

Arya found the note easily. Sabjorn had left it on his dresser, seal broken and everything. 

It was a short note, written by a hurried, jagged hand. 

_ Sabjorn, _

_ Within the enclosed crate, you’ll find the final payment. As we discussed, Honningbrew Meadery should now begin brewing at full production. In regards to your concerns about interference from Maven, I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to keep her assets and her cronies at bay. This is the beginning of a long and successful future for both of us.  _

It wasn’t signed, but Arya suspected she knew who sent it.

She had to get back to the Guild.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this isn't the only time they see each other.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashmun gets his feet wet in every way except literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwahaha! I have done a thing. Also surprise, the POV's are not always going to go in order, as they are low-key arranged kind of chronologically.

“So, you’re the vampire Isran has decided to tolerate.”

The orc Durak scowled at Ashmun, who nervously fiddled with his hood as he looked around the bunkhouse. Durak seemed to care less about keeping his voice down, because the beautiful blonde behind the counter looked up sharply at him, her hand wandering toward the dagger on her hip.

“Not quite at that point yet,” He kept his eye on the woman, “I mean none of you any harm. I just want to be rid of this. You’re sure Isran will be able to help me?”

“If he wasn’t, you’d be dead already,” Durak growled. He heaved himself to his feet “We better get going, then. It’s a long walk, and it would be a shame if you turned on the way and I had to bury my ax into your pretty skull.”

They walked in uneasy silence.

Soon after they left Riften, Ashmun suffered a bout of nausea so intense that it was all he could do to keep moving. It was a horrible feeling, being ravenously hungry and having a soured stomach at the same time, and for the first time since he’d been unable to keep food down, he was happy he hadn’t eaten anything. 

When the nausea finally ebbed, chills set in.

Ashmun shivered as he walked through the sunny summer glades of Riften. Durak finally seemed to take pity on him and tossed his cloak over, a thing of pale fur so soft and thick that Ashmun was sure he was hallucinating. The moment he wrapped it around his shoulders his shivers faded and delicious warmth folded him into its arms. 

Despite his discomfort, the travel became hypnotic. The Rift was beautiful. The Velothian mountains rose up like giants, jagged heads and shoulders vanishing into clouds as wispy and white as spun sugar. It felt more like spring than summer, everything was so green and bright and crisp beneath the cornflower blue sky. Ashmun stared around in awe even as the cold ached in his limbs.

“So,” Durak offered, “How did it happen?”

The sudden memory spoiled Ashmuns mute wonder, “Oh. Well, it was the day I was supposed to duel a House Cousin for their titles. But a vampire was spotted in the West Gash, so I rode out to take care of it. And I found them alright, but...it was unlike any vampire I’d ever seen. More beast than man. Its blood magic felt like a thousand teeth. I faced it down, and it was a vicious fight, but I finally managed to weaken it with fire before it fled. I’d been hit with blood magic, and when the physicians looked over me when I returned to Blacklight they found that I had contracted the infection.”

Durak’s beady eyes stared at him incredulously, “That explains why you haven’t been able to rid yourself of it, even with the Cure and blessings your House tried before expelling you. What you described is called a Vampire Lord-they’re very powerful, ancient beings. We also thought them long gone, the last wiped out after the Oblivion Crisis. You’ve earned my respect, Ashmun of Morrowind.”

They came across a fissure in the rocky slopes, marked only by a singular torch. “This is it? I suppose it keep everything well hidden, but I thought Fort Dawnguard would be a bit more than a cave hideout.”

The orc snorted, “Get inside.”

Ashmun quickly realized he’d been wrong. It was only a passage, though a narrow, steep one at that. A simple rope served as the only thing that kept him from breaking his neck on the rocks below.

Finally, they reached the other side. Ashmun blinked at the lush scene the sprawled before him. They were in a canyon teeming with grass and trees. A river cut through, run off from a glittering waterfall that tumbled from the mountains above. A winding path had been forged before them.

A boy was there, pacing back and forth. His face brightened, however, when Durak and Ashmun approached, “Oh, hey there! You here to join the Dawnguard, too?”

“He is,” Durak offered, pushing Ashmun toward the Nord. Despite being a few years younger, the boy was almost as tall as Ashmun, and certainly broader. 

“Agmaer,” the boy offered, “Do you mind if I walk up with you guys? Truth is, I’m a bit nervous.” When Durak nodded and grunted his approval, Agmaer bounced after them, “I’ve never done anything like this before. Er, please don’t tell Isran I was afraid to come up by myself. I don’t think that’s a good first impression.”

They rounded the corner, and beheld an impressive fortress built into the side of a mountain. It was made of light stone and looked very formidable, though it had an air of neglect. Ashmun wondered exactly how many people had actually joined up. “Pretty impressive for a cave hideout,” he said to Durak, who rolled his eyes as they approached.

“Bigger than I expected. Where is everybody? This place looks almost deserted,” Agmaer frowned as they passed beneath an archway supporting a watchtower.

“I’m wondering that myself,” Durak reached for his axe, “Keep an eye out for anything unusual. There could have very well been an attack.”

They cautiously approached the front doors, which were unlocked and unmanned. Holding up a hand, Durak slowly opened them a crack before peering inside. He then motioned for them to follow him, and Ashmun slipped inside the silent heart of Fort Dawnguard.

Well, almost silent. The foyer was a large circular chamber littered with crates and barrels. The floor was weathered stone, and in the center of the room, two men stood arguing.

A bald man in silvery robes and armor raised his hands in a placating gesture, “The Vigilants are under attack everywhere. The vampires are much more dangerous than we’d previously believed.”

The other man was also bald, a Redguard with deep walnut skin and colorless eyes. He wore a scaled cuirass and had a warhammer slung over his shoulder. The man scowled at the Vigilant as he growled, “and now you want to come running to safety with the Dawnguard, is that it? I remember Keeper Carcette telling me repeatedly that Dawnguard is a crumbling ruin, not worth the expense and manpower to repair. And now that you've stirred up the vampires against you, you come begging for my protection?"

“Isran, Carcette is dead!” The Vigilant protested, “The Hall of Vigilants... everyone... they're all dead. You were right, we were wrong. Isn't that enough for you?”

“We’ll discuss this later. Right now we’re receiving another new arrival, one that might turn hostile at moment’s notice,”

He turned to face Ashmun. 

“Well, come forward so I can get a look at you and decide if you’re even worth my time.”

Ashmun edged forward. As he did so, he realized where all the other Dawnguard members were. They were arranged around a circular balcony that ringed the atrium. As he approached, all of them raised crossbows at him, making him freeze in his tracks.

“They won’t shoot unless I give the order,” Isran told him. Hesitantly, Ashmun approached and stood before Isran. With deliberate slowness, he drew his hood back, revealing his face.

For a long moment, the Redguard only studied him. Ashmun shifted uncomfortably as Isran came closer to examine his eyes. The smell of his blood filled the air, and glancing down, Ashmun realized the man had opened his palm with a knife.

“Hungry?” Isran asked, watching him carefully, “I can see it in those eyes of yours. Durak!” he barked. The orc hurried up and saluted him, “You were seen traveling with this creature. What do you make of it?”

“He has honor, Isran,” Durak reported, “He had every opportunity to attack myself and others on his travels, but refrained from doing so, even when someone stabbed him at a-”

A knife flashed in the Redguard’s hands. Ashmun dodged it without thinking, moving with unnatural speed as he got as much distance between him and Isran as possible, who had drawn his warhammer and was advancing on him, the weapon raised as he prepared to bring it down upon Ashmun’s head, who threw his hands up to shield his face.

The impact of the hammer felt like Ashmun was being hit with a loaf of bread. He blinked as he heard a loud  _ snap _ and saw that the solid wooden handle of the weapon had cracked in two. Isran stepped back, his eyes calculating as Ashmun slowly straightened, tossing the heavy iron head of the hammer aside where it hit the stone with a deafening clang. 

“You do have a considerable amount of self-control,” Isran said flatly, “That amount of speed and strength, we’d be dead already if you meant us ill. I don’t trust you, but you’re not going to be here. You’re going to be out in the field. Supervised, of course.” He turned to the Vigilant, “Tolan, tell him about, what was it, Dimhollow?”

“Dimhollow Crypt,” Tolan confirmed, “Brother Aldvarad  was sure it held some long-lost vampire artifact of some kind. We didn't listen to him any more than we did Isran. He was at the Hall when it was attacked…”

“Go see what the vampires were looking for in this Dimhollow Crypt. With any luck, they'll still be there.” Isran ordered, “As for whose to accompany you....let’s see-”

“I will,” Tolan stepped forward, “It’s the least I can to do to avenge my fallen comrades.”

“I don’t think so. You Vigilants were never trained for-”

“I know what you think, Isran. You think we're soft, that we're cowards. You think our deaths proved our weakness. Stendarr  grant that you do not have to face the same test and be found wanting. I'm going to Dimhollow Crypt with this fledgling.”

“Very well,” Isran sighed, “but if he tears your throat out, don’t let my name be uttered with your dying breath.”

_ Why did he go on ahead? _

Ashmun swore as he heard Tolan’s voice sound in the chamber beyond, followed by a cruel laugh.

He’d woke up at their campsite at dawn. It was at the base of Stendarr’s Peak somewhat near the Hall of the Vigilant, a charred skeleton of a dwelling that Tolan had spent much of the night gazing at silently. Ashmun had opened his eyes and groaned as light screamed in with unmerciful rage. Opening them slowly, he let himself adjust to the dizzying brightness of the icy slopes around him before getting to his feet and realizing that his traveling companion was gone.

Their traveling from the fort had been awful. Soon after leaving, Ashmun was struck with another wave of agonizing cold that sapped the energy from his limbs and stole his breath away. Instead of traveling on foot, the two had decided to rent a cart soas to make haste to Dawnstar, where Tolan had promised his hall was no more than a day’s walk. 

Ashmun had not imagined that the Pale would be so fucking  _ cold. _ In Morrowind, the only place that was truly cold was Solstheim, but that was when he wasn’t being ravaged by  _ Sanguinaire Vampiris,  _ and the fire in his blood kept his body warm. When they arrived in Dawnstar, he had immediately headed to an apothecary, where he purchased a pouch of Fire Salt that he promptly crunched as he returned to the front gates to meet Tolan before continuing on.

The salt had taken the edge off, but he was still grateful when he stole inside of Dimhollow Crypt after following Tolan’s footprints up the mountain. He got his first taste of other vampires, too. They swarmed him, hissing and spewing out that seething red mist. Ashmun winced in anticipation of the blood magic’s bite, but was shocked to see it glide harmlessly over his skin. The vampire responsible seemed equally as stunned until Ashmun sliced the top half of her skull off. Black blood dribbled from her mouth as she pitched forward, already dead.

He wound through the crypt, past draugr and skeletons that paid him no heed, over a stoney underground stream. Up to a thick iron gate where a male vampire watched hungrily as Ashmun searched for the lever, and fought fiercely alongside his simply massive undead spider until he got a blast of fire in the face and died screaming, his thrall melting into a puddle of glowing, ashen gunk. 

Ashmun found Tolan in a massive chamber, far below on the landing of a long staircase knelt down before two vampires that were arguing in their rasping, hissing voices. 

"I'll never tell you anything, vampire. My oath to Stendarr is stronger than any suffering you can inflict on me!,” Tolan’s voice snarled through the dark.

“I believe you, Vigilant. So go and meet your beloved Stendarr.”

There was a wet  _ snap _ , and a solid thud as Tolan’s body struck the ground. There was another thud as Ashmun leapt down from the top of the staircase and landed nimbly on the landing, hand blazing with fire and khopesh flashing. The first vampire went down without a fight, but the second was a completely different story.

His enemy hissed, eyes blazing like twins sun’s in the dimness of the cavern. “Don't even think you know what’s here, boy!” He bared his fangs as his fingertips stretched into pale claws.

“Do tell, then,” Ashmun challenged, pointing his khopesh at the vampire, “Or don’t. I’ll find out anyway.”

The vampire lunged, and Ashmun parried his claws at the last second. They screeched against the steel of his blade. Red mist filled the air, and Ashmun’s brow furrowed as he realized it wasn’t coming from the vampire’s hands. Sharp teeth grinned as the creature’s mouth widened, his eyes glowing brighter as his skin erupted with black veins that pulsed with bloody light. Wings stretched from the vampire’s back, webbed with blood magic that blurred as they rose.

“ _ You!”  _ Ashmun snarled.

An awful laugh.  _ “Me.”  _ The razored claws swept overhead as Ashmun ducked, backpedaling frantically, “You really should’ve been more grateful. I have given you a generous gift,” the Lord drawled, stalking forward, “You could have had all of the power, but you’ve chosen to side with those pathetic creatures.”

Another flurry of blows. Ashmun dodged several, but grunted in pain as cold talons bit into his thigh. Blood dribbled out sluggishly, icy like river slush. Grasping his khopesh with both hands, Ashmun swung with all his might, but the vampire blocked his blade with ease, moving faster than he thought possible.

Ashmun retreated further into the passage, his arms trembling as he parried blow after blow. Each seemed more powerful than the last. Then, with a contemptuous flick of the wrist, the vampire knocked the khopesh out of Ashmun’s hand, the force sending him to knees, where he stayed, panting. 

“A negligible piece you are in this game that is being played,” the Lord sneered, “Still. I am disappointed that this is your best. If the other’s of House Redoran are this weak, they must hold their authority only through sheer numbers.”

Strength suddenly welled up inside of him, dark and delicious and wild. His fingers curled into fists as he closed his eyes and  _ surrendered  _ to the power. “No. You’re forgetting something.” he grunted.

“Oh? Do tell.”

Ashmun opened his eyes, and they blazed a brilliant gold, “You made me like this.”

His fire  _ hurt _ . It felt like a thousand scorpion stings on his palm as he summoned it into being, and just seeing it in the corner of his vision made his eyes burn. It hurt the other vampire more, however, charring his skin and making his eyes burst and melt in their sockets. Screams filled the air until they were silenced when Ashmun relocated his khopesh and introduced it to his enemies neck.

Ashmun stood panting for a long moment, then looked at his hand. The burn marks throbbed painfully, yet even as he watched, his skin was stitching up, becoming whole and smooth and waxen gray. He clenched his fist, then a wave of hunger washed over him, beyond anything he ever experienced. It was as if his veins themselves had developed greedy mouths demanding to be fed. Ashmun felt strange and feeble as he drowsily raised his head to where Vigilant Tolan’s body laid. 

“You really shouldn’t have gone ahead, friend.” Ashmun whispered before staggering toward the corpse.

Once he had regained his strength, Ashmun headed deeper into the chamber, skirting the dead bodies. Ahead was a circular platform with a raised dais in the center. Empty braziers littered the space, which he eyed suspiciously as he approached. 

There was a button on the dias. Ashmun knew, without particularly caring, that he shouldn’t press. When he did and a spike punched through his hand, he felt detached, as if everything he saw before him was happening to someone else. 

The spike retracted, then the braziers around him suddenly flew backward against the walls. The floor beneath him lurched, then slid downward. The dias stayed still, slowly revealing a smooth geometric column that rose before Ashmun, who readied his sword as the panel before him clicked, then swung open. A figure had been arranged upright within, and he was barely surprised when it stirred. A pair of bloody eyes opened to meet his own bemused stare.

“Ugh,” a woman blinked up at him, “where is....who sent you here?”

“I...I’m not sure that’s any concern of yours.” His brow furrowed as he saw the tube slung over her shoulder, “Is that-”

She moved in the blink of an eye to stand before him, arms crossed and face cold with suspicion. The woman was quite beautiful, a human with dark hair and porcelain skin. She wore a black cloak and light leather armor over a wine-red tunic. An unusual dagger sat at her hip. 

“I think it is, actually. Are you one of my father’s little acolytes?” She demanded.

Ashmun frowned. He doubted that Isran could have produced progeny as fine as this. “Who’s your father?” he queried. Just to be safe.

“He's a very powerful man. Or he was at one point. I'm surprised another vampire hasn't heard of him."

Oh, yes.  _ That _ cleared it up, “I’ve only been a vampire for maybe ten minutes,” he told the woman, “So act like I’m stupid and bring me up to speed.”

“You’re a new blood. I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, so I can’t help you. But if you want to know the whole story, help me get back to my family's home."

Ashmun pursed his lips, considered the risk, “Alright,” he said finally, “where do you need to go?”

“ My family used to live on an island to the west of Solitude. I would guess they still do. By the way, my name is Serana. Good to meet you."

“Right. Do you know the way out?” He asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she answered curtly, making Ashmun sigh.

Wandering through a crypt with what was likely an extremely powerful vampiress? His day just kept getting better. 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon proves himself, though the line between brave and stupid gets a bit blurred. He then uncovers a secret and the Companions are intent on keeping his mouth shut.

Jon awoke well rested. That, coupled with the fact that the fierce winds that had haunted him and Farkas the day before had stopped, put him in a cheerful mood. His high spirits were dampened, however, when he saw the sky ahead was dark with thunderheads.

Farkas grimaced, “Normally I’d not go into a storm like that, but we have work to do and there’s no shelter."

It was still calm when the front met them. As they entered its shadow, Jon looked up. The thundercloud had an elaborate structure, a natural cathedral with a massive arched roof. With some imagination he could see pillars, windows, soaring tiers, and snarling gargoyles. It was a wild beauty.

As he lowered his gaze, a great ripple raced toward them through the grass, flattening it. It took him a second to realize that it was a tremendous blast of wind. Farkas saw it too, and they both hunched their shoulders, preparing for the storm.

The gale was almost upon them when Jon saw something terrible and froze in his tracks,  _ “Dragon!” _ Farkas’ face paled. Overhead, the beast dived toward the ground. 

It was even larger than the horror he encountered in Helgen, a gleaming rust-colored beast with wings splattered with red and gold. It angled toward them to gain time. As both he and Farkas readied themselves for the fight, the tempest struck them like a warhammer. Jon gasped for air as dug his feet into the ground and a frenzied howling filled his ears. The wind tore at his cloak while the air darkened with billowing clouds of dust.

Jon squinted, searching for the dragon. It landed heavily nearby and sank into a crouch, clenching the ground with its talons. The wind reached it just as it began folding its wings. With an angry yank, it unfurled them and dragged the beast into the air. For a moment it hung there, suspended by the storm’s force. Then it slammed the dragon down on its back.

Farkas grabbed Jon’s arm,  _ “We need to get out of here!” _ the warrior shouted.

Jon hesitated. The dragon howled with frustration, and he couldn’t help but feel bad for it. His conversation with the dumner Ashmun outside of Bleak Falls flashed through his head. 

_ What determines whether a vampire is to be killed?”  _ Jon had asked, _ “Its crimes, or its existence?” _

Sure, this was a dragon, but he knew from experience that they were just as intelligent as men, if not more so. And it would be a shame something so mighty was felled by  _ wind.  _

With a savage wrench, Jon yanked his arm out of Farkas’ grasp and sprinted toward the dragon, “ _ Try to stay on the ground! _ ” he shouted. The dragon’s eyes gleamed with a kind of grim acknowledgement as he neared it. 

A strong gust pushed Jon off balance and he flew forward, landing on his chest. He skidded, then got back up with a snarl. The dragon was only twenty paces away, but he could get no closer because of its flailing wings. It struggled to fold them against the overpowering gale. Jon rushed at its right wing, intending to hold it down, but the wind caught it and the beast somersaulted over him. The razored spins on its back missed his head by inches. It clawed at the ground desperately, trying to stay down. 

Its wings lifted again, but before they could flip the dragon, Jon threw himself at the left one. The wing crumpled in at the joints and the dragon tucked it firmly against its body. Jon vaulted over its back and tumbled onto the other wing. Without warning it was blown upward, sending him sliding to the ground. He broke his fall with a roll, then jumped up and grabbed the wing again. The dragon started to fold it, and he pushed with all of his strength. The wind battled with them for a second, but with one last surge they overcame it. 

Jon stepped back quickly. The dragon seemed to take a moment to catch its breath, then swung its massive head toward Jon, who tensed but stood his ground as it studied him with inquisitive turquoise eyes. With a only slightly trembling hand, Jon reached up to pat the beast’s long, scaly cheek and found its scales to be pleasantly warm. 

The dragon had its back to the wind, shielding Jon from the onslaught, but when the dark curtain of rippling gray rain swept over them, Jon soon found himself drenched and shivering as lightning lanced overhead, flickering in and out of existence. Mile-high blue bolts streaked across the horizon, followed by peals of thunder that shook the ground. Here and there, the grass was ignited by strikes, only to be extinguished by the rain. 

The elements wandered elsewhere with merciful quickness. Once again, the sky was revealed, and the morning sun glowed with brilliance. Beams of light tinted the clouds with blazing color and gave everything a sharp contrast; brightly lit on one side, deep shadows on the other. Jon felt as if he were sitting inside a painting. 

The dragon made a rumbling sound as it stretched and craned its neck. It let loose a roar as primal and ancient as the sun and spread its wings. The membranes rustled and snapped as they were stretched taut, and the air trembled with a concussive force as the dragon leapt into the air and rose up into the sky. Jon stared longingly after it, remembering Rhaegal and how it felt to soar amongst the clouds.

“How are you even _ alive _ ?” Farkas yelled. Turning, Jon saw the Companion stalking outward him, dark hair plastered to his head, “Why didn’t you kill it?”

“What has it done that warrants death?” Jon asked calmly, “Nothing we know of. Dragons aren’t just mindless beasts, and I do not kill in cold blood.” He adjusted the strap of his sword sheath and met Farkas’ pale yellow gaze, “Now, how much farther is this Dustman’s Cairn?”

The Cairn’s entrance was an impressive work of stone-a circular pit with carved stairs that curved along the walls. An empty brazier sat in the center, emerging from several inches of water that had been accumulated during the storm. Moss hung clung to the weathered stones, and the iron door’s engravings were nearly impossible to see behind the rust.

The doors opened with a creak, and Jon peered inside. Over his shoulder, Farkas commented, “Looks like someone’s been digging here, and recently. Let’s tread lightly.”

It was undeniably the case. Torches flamed from sconces in the walls, a lit lantern sat on an ancient-looking wooden table, and the remains of a fire smoldered underneath a cooking pot. 

Farkas took the lead, plunging down the hall at the end of the chamber. Jon followed, and found himself winding through narrow half-collapsed tunnels. They opened into a maze of catacombs, which Farkas growled at the sight of, though he seemed to be enjoying himself moments later when they were bombarded by gurgling draugr. 

These wights weren’t anything like the ones Jon had fought in Winterfell. They moved as smoothly as living beings and were much easier to kill, as they seemed to be able to feel pain. However, Jon felt himself cringing inwardly as they glared at him with glowing blue eyes that seemed to swim in his vision long after they had found their way out of the crypts, down several more hallways, and finally at the top of a set of stairs that overlooked a large chamber. 

“Are you alright?” Farkas asked him roughly. Only then did Jon realized his breath was ragged.

“Fine. Those draugr just....” he trailed off, quite at a loss for words.

“They give me the creeps too. And if your stories are true about those necromancers and their army, I probably would have shit myself back there,” His eyes seemed to glow in the dim as they scanned the room before them, “let’s check out that gate.”

It was locked, obviously. Farkas examined the iron bars as Jon wandered into the alcove opposite it. Embalming supplies sat on tables and shelves coated with cobwebs, but Jon brightened when he stopped the rusted lever half-hidden against the wall. Chains screeched as the gate before Farkas lifted, and Jon turned around to join him only to watch a lattice of bars drop from the doorway and trap him inside.

Farkas sighed as he strode up “look what you’ve gotten yourself into now,” his voice was still a rough growl, but his mouth twitched as he fought a smile, “Sit tight. I’ll find the release.”

The warrior turned around and froze as half a dozen men rushed into the room. Farkas reached for his greatsword as they surrounded him, “Can I help you?” he asked in a flat voice. 

The men ignored him. Jon noticed that their swords were of fine make and gilded with silver, “Which one is he?” one shouted.

“Doesn’t matter. He wears that armor, he dies!” Another called.

“Don’t do this. You will die.” Farkas warned. Jon was awed by his audacity. Here he was, surrounded on all sides, grossly outnumbered, and still he seemed perfectly confident. Even stranger was how the men  _ hesitated,  _ as if they had believed him, even just for a moment. But then they raised their swords, faces set with determination. 

Suddenly, Farkas doubled over with a grunt. Jon shrank back as he searched frantically around for the archer that had obviously struck him, but then his eyes widened as Farkas straightened back up, except…

_ By the Gods _ .

A monstrous charcoal gray wolf tossed its head as it roared at its enemies. The men hacked at him with their swords, but the wounds closed up almost as quickly as they appeared. A few swift swipes of his claws, and all six men fell to the ground, either already dead or groaning as their lifeblood spurted out to soak the stones on the ground. 

The wolf stood there for a long moment, red dripping from its arms. Nervously, Jon cleared his throat. The monster’s ears twitched, and then it turned and dashed down the far hall. Jon was left waiting, wondering if he was going to stay here and starve to death, but to his immense surprise, the gate suddenly slid back upward. 

Jon crept forward carefully, skirting the corpses, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. When he heard footsteps he tensed, but then relaxed a fraction as Farkas barreled out of the tunnel. Only a fraction, however.

“...what the fuck was that?” he demanded as the Companion went over to fetch his armor.

“A blessing,” Farkas answered simply as he first donned his leggings and tunic. Which was trimmed with wolf skin, Jon realized wearily. The steel plates of his armor were likewise fashioned to with the fearsome visages of snarling wolves, “I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“Scare me? Why  _ ever _ would you think that?” Jon asked sarcastically. That earned him a glare. “Who were those people?”

“The Silver Hand. A group of bandits lookin’ for a way to off people and get away with it.” Farkas spat at the corpses as he slung his sword over his back, “we should keep moving. There are still draugr about.”

They pressed onward. 

“So.” Farkas drawled as they crept down yet another abandoned tunnel, “how did you manage to tame that dragon?”

“A dragon cannot be tamed,” Jon replied, “But I...I was born to a bloodline with a certain... _ affinity _ for dragons.”

“So you’re Dragonborn?” Farkas sounded skeptical.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Me neither, not in full. They’re beings of legend, warriors of unimaginable power. Not underdeveloped whelps with pretty-”

There was a chorus of squeals. Jon unsheathed his sword as massive rats lunged out of the shadows. They were vicious, snapping their teeth as Jon kicked them away, realizing his dagger would serve him better. The glass blade was faster and lighter, and more importantly had a shorter reach to deal with the filthy creatures, of which Jon made quick work of. 

Farkas wrinkled his nose, “Why do you have an elf blade?”

“...A friend gave it to me. What’s wrong with it? Don’t like elves?”

“No. ‘Specially Thalmor. My father died fighting the Great War against those bastards. I’d like to introduce those pointed-faced, small co- _ what is it now? _ ”

They had reached a long hall. Bound sarcophagi lined the way up toward a set of stairs and a platform with an altar raised from it. However, Jon’s attention was directed to the curved wall behind it, the same in appearance as the one he and Ashmun had discovered in Bleak Falls Barrow.

“ _ Stone commemorates child king Jafnhar who was...burned alive by the fire of great dragon Ludonost,”  _ Jon murmured, drifting toward the writing. The word fire seemed to swim before him, glowing with a white hot light before vanishing entirely. 

“Er...Jon?” Farkas eyed him oddly, “Why are you staring at the Dragon Cult walls?”

Jon blinked. “Er, no reason. Looked interesting, I guess.” He turned around to look at the altar, “Is that what we’re looking for?” he asked, pointing.

The piece was obviously important, set reverently atop an iron pedestal, though it looked like an ordinary shard of metal. Farkas grunted as he reached for it, “This is it,” he said excitedly, “A fragment of the axe Wuuthrad, the elf grinder.”

You couldn’t be a member of the Companions and not know about the legendary axe, “This is a piece of the original?” Jon said in disbelief, “It has to be thousands of years old!”

“Five thousand at least,” Farkas confirmed. “We need to get this back to Skjor. Let’s get out of here before-”

Behind them, the lids of the sarcophagi flew open one by one as emaciated figures emerged, blue eyes blazing in the dim. 

“ _ Fuck. _ ” Farkas and Jon said in unison as they readied their swords. 

“And that's-” Farkas belched, “How we found it.” He raised his mug up toward Jon, “I think the whelp has done more than prove himself.”

Kodlak White-Mane, a grizzled old man who insisted that he wasn’t the leader of the Companions, frowned thoughtfully as he mulled over Farkas’ account of their quest to Dustman’s Cairn, “You most certainly succeeded in your mission, Jon Snow,” he admitted, “and, if what Farkas said was true about this dragon, you’ve definitely proved your courage and honor. I think,” the old man heaved himself to his feet, then we have an induction in order. On your feet.”

Everyone stood. Kodlak strode around the firepit and up the stairs to stand before them all. Aela nudged Jon and indicated that he was to join Kodlak, and so he did, feeling strangely awkward as he stood there before a dozen-some pairs of keen eyes. 

“Brother and Sister, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold. This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his valor. Who shall speak for him?”

“I,” Farkas’s eyes gleamed over the haze of the fire, “I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us.”

“Would you raise your shield in his defense?” Kodlak asked in a sonorous voice.

“ I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us.”

“Would you raise your sword in his honor?”

Farkas grinned, “It stands ready to meet the blood of our foes.”

“Would you raise a mug to his name?”

In answer, he lifted his mug, “Jon Snow, I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall revels in your stories.”

“Then the judgement is complete. His heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call!”

Aela raised her mug, “It shall be so!” She cried.

“It shall be so!,” Farkas echoed.

“ _ It shall be so!”  _ The entire Guild cheered, and then they all drank.

When the bards strummed up songs and the hall resumed its revelry, Kodlak turned to Jon and clasped his shoulder. Jon expected some form of congratulations, so he was surprised when the old man leaned forward toward his ear and said, “meet us at midnight at the base of the Skyforge.”

“‘...Us’?” Jon asked, but Kodlak had already walked away. 

Kodlak was standing in the middle of the path, impossible to miss.   
“Good, you’re here,” he said brusquely, lifting his lantern, “Farkas told me you saw him use his...er, gift.”

Was this what it was all about? Jon nodded, “His secret’s safe with me, I promise you that.”

“Yes, well, we’re here to make sure it stays that way. Follow me.”

Kodlak turned toward the stony base of the Skyforge. He pulled out a gilded silver knife, and before Jon could do anything to stop him, slashed across his palm. Blood splattered across the stone, and it suddenly retracted into the wall, stone grinding loudly in the dark until a passage was revealed.

“This is the Underforge,” Kodlak told Jon as he strode inside, “It’s where we of the Circle-a council of sorts within the Guild, come to discuss important matters and pay homage to our patron, Hircine, lord of the hunt.”

The tunnel delved deep underground, but leveled out to reveal a cavern furnished with fine carpets and furniture. Several empty altars dotted the space, along with a roughly hewn stone basin in the center of the room. Several tunnels branched out from the central area, and Jon could hear shuffling and heavy, bestial breathing echoing from deeper within.

“Hircine’s not one of your Divines, is he? He’s the other thing, the Daydrow.”

“Daedra,” Kodlak confirmed, “Though, just like us mortals, Aedra and Daedra aren’t inherently good or evil. The Divines just hold dominion over things that are more appealing to us. Time, Life, Beauty, Wisdom, the Forces of Nature, Love, Justice, Honor, and Fruitful Labor. Each something to respect and appreciate. They say that those who do so with all are the ones to reach Sovngarde, save their soul isn’t bound to something-or someone-else.” His words grew sour, “Hircine has granted us the speed and strength of wild beasts, and because you know our little secret, we’re going to make sure your lips are sealed by sharing the beast blood with you.”

As if on cue, the shadowed in the tunnels shifted, and four monstrous wolves stalked out into the main area, studying Jon with keen yellow eyes. He recognized Farkas, the great charcoal shadow that grinned at him with a mouthful of sharp teeth while the smaller and slightly lighter-pelted werewolf next to him eyed him flatly. A nasty bruise in the obvious shape of a hoof was painted in green and purple on his sparsely furred chest. A dust-colored wolf glared at him next to a dark auburn one that stalked forward to the basin.

“I doubt that you’d recognized Aela in this form,” Kodlak said, “She’s volunteered to let you share her blood. Aela, if you will…”

The auburn werewolf’s claws flashed. Blood seeped from the wound in her wrist, filling the basin before it slowed to a trickle. With a satisfied growl, Aela stepped back, her eyes never leaving Jon’s.

“Drink,” Kodlak urged.

Jon gazed into the crimson, “I...I’m not sure about this.”

The dusty wolf snarled in the unmistakable voice of Skjor, “It’s either this or we kill you, boy. Make your choice.”

Jon hesitated. Idly, Farkas picked at his teeth with a claw and pulled something red and stringy from his jaws before snapping it up again. Knowing he was hopelessly outmatched by the Circle, he stepped forward and scooped a handful of warm blood up before sipping it tentatively. The wolves watched him closely.

They waited in silence. Jon stood there awkwardly after swallowing a few mouthfuls of the stuff, “Er-does it take a minute, or should I drink more-”

“It should have changed you already.” Kodlak interrupted with an irritated scowl, “It didn’t work.”

“Huh.” Jon said. Fear and relief fought for dominance in his gut, twisting it. “So...what now? Are you going to…” his gut pitched again, and he retched, the sour tang of bile and blood rising in his throat, “Hold that thought.”

They didn’t get a say in the matter because he then blacked out. 

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO AND WELCOME TO MY SHITSHOW!  
> Honestly, I don't even know what made me think this was a good idea but here we are. What are you even doing here? Go pet some grass.


End file.
